Moments
by Osidiano
Summary: A pseudo-novelization of SD3 isolating the more important scenes for plot. While Angela is trapped in Jad, Duran wakes up to find that he has a fairy in his head and meets up with Hawk. Kevin and Carlie also begin the long walk to Wendell.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer/Note:** I do not own Seiken Densetsu 3 or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). They are the property of Square, and the game designer/creator. I am not making any money off this story; it is being written for my own sick twisted amusement. All original concepts in this story are original (_duh_) and belong to me, or have had all rights handed over to me for the duration of this story. Do not steal. I would like to thank The Mad Poet, my beta and a fellow fan, for being a rampant geek and helping to flesh out much of the world history that you will find in this fic. This story may contain violence, psychological trauma, romance, flashbacks, language, crude humor, accents written into dialogue, a fair sprinkling of creative and artistic/realistic liberties, and possibly sex or sexual references. If you're not mature enough to handle all that, then just leave now. Also, I will not translate any other language in this story unless someone in the chapter other than the person speaking knows that language, and certain countries in Fa'Diel will have their own national language that corresponds to a language in our world. If this annoys you, read something else.

**Moments:  
Chapter One**

The ship owner in Sultan had been surprisingly nonchalant about the whole transaction, Hawk had noticed as he pressed the sticky coins into the man's hand with a fervent whisper. There were no questions asked; the captain just nodded and pointed to the ship that sat low in the harbor, ready to take off within the hour. At the time Hawk had been glad, as his throat was raw and sore, and he had not been in the mood for small talk. Still, he had expected a raised brow, or a confused look, or something. Then again, maybe the people in Sultan were used to seeing bloody limping figures emerge from the desert late at night. Perhaps the ship owner simply had no reason to be surprised by something that now seemed so natural and ordinary. Hawk sighed as he lowered himself gingerly to sit on the edge of the hard pallet that would serve as his bed for the duration of the voyage.

Because running through Navarre half-dead and soaked in human gore was perfectly normal, oh yes.

Well, thank goodness his sarcasm had survived the ordeals of the last week unscathed. Hawk smiled to himself, coupling the action with a small chuckle that hurt his chest when it escaped. It was that carefully controlled kind of hysteria, where he knew that he must be going mad but found comfort in the fact that so was the rest of the world. He had lost everything in the course of less than a day, and now here he was, giggling and laughing and thinking about how weird the owner of the ship had acted.

The desert heat must have gone straight to his brain.

Hawk's inappropriate stress response passed quickly enough, and he looked around the dimly lit cabin to keep his mind off of the Thieves' Guild. It was small and cramped here, barely big enough for the bed and a tiny round table that had been pushed off into the other corner of the rectangular room. There was an oil lamp on the table, the source of the room's light. The floor and walls were clean though, and Hawk thought that it was a nice touch. He got up and hobbled over to the lamp, blowing it out and waiting a moment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

He made his way back to the bed slowly, letting his hands guide him as he crawled on top of the thin sheets until he was lying prone, face pressed into the old pillow. Hawk rolled over, trying to ignore the sharp stabs of pain as he lay on half-healed wounds. With aching hands still clutching the hilts of his daggers beneath the many folds and hangs of his layered shirts, he closed his eyes. He needed to rest now, now that he finally had the chance, and not worry about what was happening in places where he could do nothing. Whatever sick schemes that _Isabella_ woman had planned would need time to prepare; she would need to take Sultan and flex the military arm of the newly formed Navarren kingdom here before she led an invasion on another continent. Somehow, that was reassuring to know.

In the meantime, while she was being a brainwashing bitch, Hawk would travel to Jad by ship, and then make the four day trip on foot to Wendell. He was confident that he could walk it in two, maybe three at the most provided that he was fully healed by the time of his arrival. But that was weeks away, and he had nothing better to do than wait.

His mind wandered back to the sand fortress, to his blood-brother and the friends he had left behind when he made his escape almost a week ago. He thought about Eagle, about the older thief's cunning grins and thoughtful expressions; thought about Eagle's face twisted in pain, and one of Hawk's own daggers embedded deep in his chest. Hawk shuddered, trying to force the image of his blood-brother's death from his mind. But it would not leave. Eagle's blood flecking his face as the man coughed, clutching his upper arms as he fell to the ground. His eyes had been locked open in death.

That was when the guards had rushed in. That was the scene that awaited their eyes, the sound of the Flame Khan's labored breathing and Isabella's hysterical tears falling numbly on their ears. Hawk had pleaded with them to listen to him, sworn that it was not what it looked like. But they had taken him away, stripped him of his weapons and dragged him down to the cells beneath the fortress. They had beaten him, and left him blacking in and out of consciousness.

Soon after, Isabella had visited him, the false tears and pretend fear replaced by a smug confidence and cultist fanaticism. She really was a crazy monster, he had thought at the time as she laughed, telling him that he would soon die and join his precious friend. Isabella had giggled girlishly, had brought a hand to her mouth and fidgeted like some love-struck fool as she informed him that everything was going _exactly_ as planned, and oh, how it was such a shame that he would not be alive to witness all the glory of the upcoming kingdom. She warned him to watch his tongue and left, still slightly euphoric but quickly regaining her composure.

And then Jessica had arrived.

Sweet, wonderful, beautiful Jessica. . .she had held the bars of the cell and cried, had begged him to tell her that he had not murdered her brother. Murdered. . .it was such a harsh word to hear coming from her pretty mouth. She had begged him to tell her that it was all not true, and that there had been some kind of mistake. He had been going to tell her, had been going to disclose anything in order calm her down and get that horrified look off her face, but he remembered what Isabella had said just before she left:

_If you tell anyone, you can say good-bye to dear Jessica. . .as long as you are silent, she is safe. . ._

He could not lie, and so he said nothing. She left sobbing uncontrollably, running blindly from the jail. Hawk had felt like a coward then, had wanted nothing more than to give up and let himself die. But he had promised Eagle once, a long time ago, that he would take care of Jessica if anything happened to her real brother. And besides, he still had a shred of that convoluted thief pride of his. He would not allow himself to stay captured for long.

It had been his other blood-brother's genius that allowed him to escape. The merchant-cat Nikita had broken him out and helped him flee the fortress, had done it all with ears twitching apprehensively and tail swishing nervously. Hawk had not spoken as they hurried through the underground passageways that littered the underside of the sand fortress. Nikita had smiled at him just outside the gates, had pressed a few days supply of water and rations into his shaking hands and told him not to worry. When Hawk saw the familiar handles of his daggers, Eagle's blood cold and dry but still covering the blades, he had sought the answers in those feline eyes.

_I don't know what happened, bro, but I trust you, and that's all I need to know._

They had exchanged a hurried embrace, and then Hawk had escaped to the desert, heading for Sultan. It was while he was running that he had formed his plan to go to Wendell. Isabella used a strange magic that he had never even heard of before. Mind control, brain-washing? What kind of trickery was that? Whatever witchcraft it was, he knew that it was not something that he could deal with alone. He was hoping the Priest of Light, in Wendell, would have at least some of the answers.

So, he let himself fall into a fitful and light slumber, trying not to think of what he would do if the Priest could not help him.

* * *

He had never felt quite so alone before. The young prince looked up at the cold dark walls of the castle-fortress with a strange new sense of foreboding. Two years ago he had lived there, had run through those dimly lit halls with that odd stomping gait of his, had hidden in the shadows and jumped out laughing at the guards in an attempt to scare them. It never worked of course; the guards were all hulking beasts and prowling wolves who probably could have smelled him from halfway across the Moonlight Forest. But that was two years ago, back when he had watched the king with an eager sort of pride from the sidelines and hung on his every word.

Back when he loved his people, and wanted to follow in his father's footsteps.

All that had changed now. Now, he felt sick walking up the steps and had to keep his mouth clamped shut when the guards acknowledged his passage for fear that the bile would spill out over his lips. It had come as a shock when he re-entered the capitol: he could not stand the sight or smell of the Beast Kingdom, could not stand the way that they lived. He hated the violent clamor that surrounded him in the city, haunting the crudely cobbled streets like angry wraiths. They were constantly moving; biting, kicking, howling as they tore into one another. As their Beastman blood got the better of them.

He _hated_ it. He hated _them_. He hated the fact that now he was just like them, just another monster in the night, another nightmare that could not be escaped. Worse still, he realized that he was the only one in the kingdom who felt that way.

The young prince walked slowly up the steps of the castle-fortress, stopping at the second-story landing to glance behind, out over the tops of the surrounding forest. It felt like he was staring at the bars of a green cage, with the Moonreading Tower like a dark spike of dread in his heart. Why had the spirit Luna "blessed" them with the ability to transform? Why had Dolan's anger and cruelty been passed down into their blood? His head was swimming with theological questions, but knew that it would have been blasphemy to ask any of them. Two years ago, he had believed that they were still considered children of the moon and smiled upon by the Goddess. Now he knew from experience just how cursed they really were.

"Karl. . ." he murmured the name with a heavy sigh, watched the faint breeze carry it away into the night. The prince had given the name to a small wolf pup he had found in the darker recesses of the Moonlight Forest, whimpering next to the limp body of its mother. He had taken it as his own and stayed in the wilderness outside the capitol's walls to raise it. The name sounded human, not at all like it was given by one animal to another, and a tiny smile still sometimes crept onto his face when he thought of it. Karl was the reason why he felt so alone.

In the wide, innocent eyes of the wolf pup, he had finally found a sense of belonging, had finally had someone who understand what it was like to be outcast and alone. Neither had a mother, though sometimes the prince could not help but feel the twinge of jealousy. Karl had once had a mother, had once been loved and nurtured by her. The young prince had never had that. His mother. . .was a victim of violence, a human who was taken by the Beast King and then kept alive just long enough to give birth. He imagined that she had died of blood loss, crying while he clawed his way out of her fragile body like some demon crawling forth from the abyss.

He shuddered at the imagery.

"I. . .I swore to protect you, didn't I. . .?"

It was true. The young prince had sworn to Karl time and time again that he would protect him like his own son, would nurture and love him more than any mother ever could. Perhaps it was the Goddess's sense of irony at work that he had been the one to kill the pup in an animal rage, to tear the innocence from those eyes with slavering jaws.

_Or maybe it was justice_, a sick piece of his mind whispered to him, smugly adding, _retribution for Dolan's crimes against her_.

More likely though was that it was just his own tainted blood at work, the power and rage and death that came with being half-Beastman. The discovery of his ability to transform into the snarling hybrid monster had come with the ultimate price, and now Karl was dead, his tiny body buried beneath the feet of a statue in their favorite glade. Incredible strength had flowed through the young prince at that time, had ripped his body into pieces and forced him to fight as bloodlust clouded his vision. . .that memory would probably haunt him for the rest of his days.

As it was, he could still feel his teeth sinking into the loose skin at Karl's throat, could hear the growls die down to pitiful whimpers as blood pumped out of their wounds, staining the darkness of the forest with a vivid red. The prince could not help but hold back tears remembering the way that Karl licked at his bloodied hands when it was almost over, the way that the pup had whined softly during his last fleeting moments.

The prince had survived his rite of passage into adulthood, but by becoming one of _them_, he felt as though he had lost everything that truly mattered.

From somewhere to his left, he could hear the sounds of a hunting party getting ready, the shouts and heavy clang of armor breaking through his morose reverie. He turned towards the sound, brows knit in confusion. What was going on? Slowly, the young prince padded over to the door, pushing it open with his shoulder and slipping inside.

Standing at the head of a company of Beastmen in full battle regalia was the familiarly imposing figure of Lugar. Once, Lugar had been assigned as the prince's personal guardian, and the young prince had despised him ever since. Part of his fierce dislike for the older Beastman was rooted in the fact that the king had shown him a large amount of favor, a type of rough affection that the prince had never known. But that was only a tiny piece, he reassured himself. Most of his hatred stemmed from the knowledge that Lugar was bigger, stronger, faster, and a better military thinker than he would ever be, and was arrogant enough to rub it in his face every chance he got.

"By order of the Beast King, our war against the humans will commence immediately!" Lugar was barking the words, a cruel gleam in his eyes as he bared his teeth. "The day to exact our revenge on those miserable little flesh-sacks is at hand! No longer will they be able to hide behind their self-proclaimed 'superiority.' We are not slaves, not animals to be domesticated and used at their whims. Those filthy humans have gone unchecked for _too long_! Now is the time to show them that we will not tolerate the indignities any longer! They will pay for their crimes against our people in blood!"

Lugar had been a child during the Beast King's rebellion, had been one of the few from the icy lands of the Magic Kingdom Altena to escape their chains and make it to the boats. More than anyone else that the prince knew, Lugar had a reason behind his hatred, logic feeding his anger until it grew into the powerful monster that stood before him now. But he could never understand Lugar; could never know the pain and suffering of being a slave. The prince was born in the Moonlight Forest, born free into a dark world without sunlight where their culture and history could finally flourish after a thousand years of forced servitude.

The prince fell in next to another warrior at the back of the ranks, still close enough to the door that he could duck out if he was noticed. He recognized the slave brand on the older Beastman's arm, similar to Lugar's own but proclaiming that he had been from Byzel. For a moment, he wondered what the beast's name was, what strange sound the humans had thought of upon purchasing him; would it have been similar to Lugar's name, or something bland and inconspicuous? He knew better than to ask, instead tilting his head to whisper under the company's rousing cheers and Lugar's continued ranting.

"What's going on?"

"Eh? You haven't heard?" the warrior grinned, eyes focused on their leader as he replied. "Lugar's been chosen to lead an invasion force into human territory; first Jad, then Wendell. . .-" he paused, gaze flicking over to regard the young prince for a moment before returning. "-You're half, aren't you? Is that why you didn't volunteer?"

The young prince flinched at that, falling out of the formation to avoid answering. Besides, he would need to leave before Lugar spotted him and tried to forcibly conscript him into serving. Being under that Beast's thumb was the last thing he needed right now. The prince snuck out in the same fashion that he had entered as thoughts of Luna and the Goddess were pushed aside, his mind clouded with the uncertainty of war.

What did they need a war for, anyway? There was enough death and destruction in nature; the last thing their country needed was for half its populace to rush off to some distant lands, never to return. The prince may not have been a strategic mastermind, but he was not a fool. He could not bring himself to believe that the king was one, either.

Then again, they were nothing more than _animals _sometimes, he thought bitterly, and Lugar's speech on vengeance would be enough for the entire country to arm itself and march out. He would not put it past his father to start a war over the past, but he needed to know for himself. Were they all just animals? The derogatory term for his people stung when he used it, the brand injuring his natural pride. Or was there some kind of. . .of carefully thought out plan that went with this war? Only one Beast could possible know.

With that, he took off up the steps to the throne room in search of answers.

"The Beast King isn't here," replied the guard when the prince questioned him, coupling the explanation with a shrug. "He left to talk to some _foreigner_."

The prince sighed, heading back down the steps. What was the capital coming to? First news of a war, and now the king had run off to spend time with a _foreigner_? Though not normally a xenophobe, the prince knew that there was no such thing as a foreign Beastman, regardless of where they came from. There was only one Beast Kingdom, and while the majority of the people there had been liberated from places like Byzel, Maia, Palo, and Jad, no one would have spoken of a freed Altenan or Navarren Beastman as a "foreigner."

"--magic pleases me," the low rumble of the king's voice came to him as a surprise, the line of dialogue incomplete and muffled through distance and some kind of barrier. The prince jerked at the sound, head snapping around to try to pinpoint the source, his furred ears – lupine in nature and located higher up on the sides of his head, normally hidden in the mess of his blond hair – swiveling when he found it. Without wasting any time, the prince rushed to the edge of the ramparts, leaning down over them to stare at the landing below. There, he could see the broad shoulders and wild grey mane of the Beast King, with a brightly colored figure kneeling in front of him. The prince strained to catch more of their conversation.

"As I said before, your highness: dark magic, at your beck and call!"

_Dark magic_?

"To think that you could bring out his potential like that. . .your work with the wolf pup was rather impressive. But now that my son can transform into a true werewolf, your job is done. Leave. Now."

"B-b-beg. . .beg your pardon, your highness?" the brightly colored figure lifted its head, revealing what might have been a human face beneath several layers of black and dark blue make-up, the area just around its eyes ringed in red. The figure stood as the Beast King began to walk away, hurrying to catch up with his long strides. "N-n. . .no, y-your highness!"

But the prince was not listening anymore. _Your work with the wolf pup_. . .his vision was starting to go dim, and he tightened his grip on the stone ramparts until his hands hurt and felt like they might split. The Beast King had used this bizarre _foreigner_ to manipulate his beloved Karl, to infect him with its _dark magic_ and turn them both into monsters.

The king was going to _pay for this_.

He hoisted himself over the ramparts with an angry shout, landing on the stones below in a crouch. White hot lances of pain shot up his legs, but he ignored them and ran after the two. He felt like his chest was shrinking, organs constricting and heart pounding against his ribcage. The short fur on his arms was standing on end, and he could feel the skin of his face pulling forward, the fragile bones popping and stretching as it elongated into a decidedly wolfish snout.

"BEAST KING!" he roared the title as he lunged for the monarch, nails shifting into ragged claws that connected with the king's billowing blue cape. The Beast King turned as though responding to the buzzing of an irritating insect while the foreigner – whom the prince decided looked much like a dark jester up close – fell back against the wall, eyes wide and painted mouth contorted with fear at the sight of the enraged and half-transformed prince. But the Beast King only laughed at the sight.

"Ah. . .yes," there was a smile on his lupine face, almost lost beneath his bushy grey beard. It was an odd sight, partially because wolves were never meant to smile. "You truly are my son: the blood of the Beast runs strong in you. Never forget who you are, or where you come from--"

"SHUT UP!" the prince snarled, taking a swing at his father. He did not feel like listening to another lecture. The Beast King caught the punch easily, that amused expression replaced by a flat look of annoyance. He twisted the prince's arm until the boy felt it snap just above his elbow, a howl of pain escaping him.

"Don't even try it," the Beast King said, pushing the boy back against the ramparts and watching as his son doubled over his broken arm. He stalked towards the prince, their gazes locking for a moment. Perhaps the Beast King saw the utter loathing burning in his son's eyes, could see the fear and intelligence trying to hide behind the bloodlust instilled by the change. As it was, he placed one large hand on his son's neck, forcing the boy to lean backwards over the edge of the wall as he tightened his grip ever so slowly. The prince made a low gurgling sound in the back of his throat, choking. He was trying to say something, but between the transformation and the monarch's apathetic strangle-hold, it seemed unlikely that he would be able to get any words out. "What it is, my boy?"

The king tilted his head to one side slightly, listening without expecting to hear anything. But the prince was far more tenacious than the king gave him credit for:

"N. . .N-not. . .m-my. . .FATHER!" he roared the last word, and with a surge of strength pushed the Beast King back a step. All his strength, all the power the half-change had granted him, and he could only manage one step. At that moment they both knew how weak he was, both knew that he would lose. But the prince made to straighten anyway. He was going to stand his ground and fight the hopeless battle.

The Beast King hit him, once, full in the face. The prince felt the force of the blow travel up his snout, fragile bones shattering like glass beneath his skin. Suddenly he could not smell anything, and his vision seemed to dim and blacken around the edges. He stumbled to the side, swaying unsteadily as he tried to fight off the crippling pain. The prince was certain that he needed only a moment to gather his composure, but the king would not give him that.

He felt his father lift him from the stones by the lapels of his vest, the stronger beast holding him over the edge of the wall, the prince's pawed feet dangling helplessly in the air. Nonetheless, the prince kicked and struggled against the hands that held him, trying to twist his neck to bite the monarch's fingers. He heard someone screaming from far away, heard someone cursing in a high-pitched, panicked cry that cracked and hurt his sensitive ears. Only when his father shook him into silence did he realize that the terrified little voice was his own.

". . .You're such a fool."

The Beast King released him and the prince felt himself falling, the forest floor rushing up to meet him. He was going to die, and he knew it. The last thing that flashed before his eyes was the look of sadness that had been in his father's eyes when he let go. The prince briefly wondered why.

Then, there was blissfully nothing, and he succumbed to darkness. He hit the ground with a sickening thud of splintering bone and burst organs, blood pooling out around his mangled body.

* * *

Duran was relatively tall for his age, with the same broad shoulders and muscular arms as his father. He had once been told that he even had his father's hearty laugh and volatile temper, but those were things that he would not have known. Try as he might Duran could not remember the details about his father that would have made him a man; a human being in place of the myth that he had grown to become. He knew that his father was a mighty warrior under the King's command, a legend that all of Forcena respected. His own memories of the man were hazy along the edges, wrought with childlike awe that made his father appear larger than life and without fault or weakness. He was old enough now to understand that the image he had created in place of his father was skewed and that his perceptions had been completely biased in the man's favor. But what did that knowledge matter now?

The knight who sired him had been dead for years.

"Duran, you're up next," the boyishly high voice of a squire to his left cut through his thoughts, forcing him back into the real world. Slowly Duran lifted his head, dragging his vision up from the stone floor of the waiting area. The boy was standing by the exit, head turned to regard something outside of the room, wringing his hands with excitement. Duran snorted faintly; it was probably the boy's first time at the tournament. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing, he silently countered, reminding himself that this was his first year entering. The swordsmanship tournament was held once every spring in the castle's royal arena, and while Duran had been of age as of two summers ago there had always been something in the way of his registration. First it had been the registration fee, and then, his younger sister had fallen ill and he had withdrawn to take care of her.

"Go show 'em what you're made of out there!"

The young man stood, fidgeting nervously with his visor under the pretense of securing it. Grabbing his sword from where it had been resting next to him, Duran gave the squire a curt nod and headed out. He could not see the high walls of the arena yet, only a blinding light at the end of the dimly lit corridor, but he could feel and hear it all around him. The sound of the crowd cheering in the stands was deafening as thousands of brawny men and women screamed praise and obscenities at their champions and challengers. He could feel the walls shudder with the stomping of heavy boots, mimicking the steady beat of his heart. This year he was the rookie, the green-around-the-edges mercenary who challenged Forcena's champion.

Duran knew the man who had won the tournament last year, a monstrous individual wielding a heavy two-handed blade. The man went by the alias "Bruiser," which was quite fitting when the young man stopped to think about it. Since the tournament was based around the concept of non-lethal force and the strength of mercy, neither would be using the edges of their weapons. One look at the broad side of that sword, though, and Duran knew that he would have the most impressive sets of bruises anyone had ever seen. That was of course if the intensity and momentum behind the blow were not enough to shatter his bones and split his skin from the force of impact, which was highly unlikely. Perhaps if he. . . Duran narrowed his eyes, brows knit together in thought as he lengthened his stride.

He had not come this far because he carefully analyzed his opponents, considering the best method to exploit their shortcomings. His strength, the raw power and almost brutish tenacity that had been bred into him down a long line of accomplished swordsmen, had gotten him to the final round of the tournament. He was here not because of strategy, but because he had virtue; he was here because he believed in the strength that his father had given him. Duran did not need a plan of action, did not need to stop and think about how his opponent would try to fight. All that Duran needed was his blade.

The tightness that had been growing in his chest melted beneath his armor as he stepped out into the sunlight with his head held high. All around him, he could feel the energy of the people of Forcena like it was a living thing, like it was somehow tangible as it swept across the sandy ground and flowed into him. It set his blood on fire, left him grinning and breathless as he turned, trying to keep the wonder and his own idealistic nature from his eyes as he surveyed the stands. He did not hear the announcer introduce him as his father's son, did not care that his name was buried under the jubilant cries for the lost knight. For now, this was enough. There would come a day when his victories would be his own, when his own name would be enough to rile such fierce pride and loyalty. He could live in his father's shadow until then.

Bruiser took a step towards him, planting the tip of his sword down in the sandy ground and leaning forward on it with a condescending sneer. At the moment he had the visor of his helmet flipped up, waiting for the announcer to finish and the battle to start. "I hope you like second place, little boy," the older man called out to him over the roar of the crowd. "Because I don't care _whose_ son you are: you can't win on a name alone."

Duran opened his mouth to bark an angry reply, but before he could get the words past his lips, he heard the announcer shout:

"Let the battle. . .BEGIN!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer/Note:** I do not own Seiken Densetsu 3 or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). They are the property of Square, and the game designer/creator. I am not making any money off this story; it is being written for my own sick twisted amusement. All original concepts in this story are original (_duh_) and belong to me, or have had all rights handed over to me for the duration of this story. Do not steal. I would like to thank The Mad Poet, my beta and a fellow fan, for being a rampant geek and helping to flesh out much of the world history that you will find in this fic. This story may contain violence, psychological trauma, romance, flashbacks, language, crude humor, accents written into dialogue, a fair sprinkling of creative and artistic/realistic liberties, and possibly sex or sexual references. If you're not mature enough to handle all that, then just leave now. Also, I will not translate any other language in this story unless someone in the chapter other than the person speaking knows that language, and certain countries in Fa'Diel will have their own national language that corresponds to a language in our world. If this annoys you, read something else.

**  
Moments:  
Chapter Two  
**

The sun was bright and glaring overhead, cold light reflecting off the pristine snow to blind the young girl who stumbled through the frigid wastelands of the north. She had imagined before that sunlight would bring warmth; that a person could not feel the rays upon their skin and still be cold. But that was a foolish notion, she now realized, as her body trembled uncontrollably and her face and shoulders burned. Was 'burned' the right term for this feeling? She did not know. Her mind was racing, brain clutching wildly at abstract and fleeting thoughts in hopes that it could keep her from noticing the _cold_. It did not quite work, but the girl went along with the foolish notion anyway. Thinking kept her from screaming.

She was burning.

But how could she be burning when it was so cold? It did not seem to make sense. Her skin ached in the air, and when she turned her head ever so slightly to glance at one bare shoulder, she saw that her once pale and flawless skin was now a mottled dark red and purple hue, beginning to bubble and blister from the weather's onslaught. She grimaced, and was thankful that she had long since lost all feeling there. It struck her then how bizarre and foreign this experience truly was. This was not caused by some wayward strain of tainted Mana, some half-controlled spell gone awry. No, this was a natural burn caused by too much sun on skin that had never gone outside a protective circle on its own. But still, regardless of the way her skin bubbled and discolored in the sunlight, she was entirely without warmth.

She had never before been cold in her life.

A small smile crept onto her painted lips, the dire temperature having caused them to split and the blood to freeze before it had the chance to drip down her ravaged face hours ago. She shivered, rubbing at her naked bicep with one gloved hand, her other arm clutching her middle as though holding shut a gaping gut wound. For the most part she remained uninjured, though, except for the vicious gangrene and chill that she was certain were slowly killing her. Behind her, she could hear the Sanguins crunching through the snow, waiting for her to fall in true scavenger fashion.

_Disgusting little monsters. . .  
__  
_Her whole life she had lived in the bustling capital of the Magic Kingdom Altena, safe from the biting wind and snow on the other side of its enchanted walls. She knew nothing of the outside world, of the continents not connected to their cold and desolate lands. The girl took a moment to marvel at those facts: she lived in the center of the coldest place in all of Fa'Diel, and she had never been cold before today. Ah, what wonders the grace of the Goddess had lent her people, what miracles the magic of her blood wielded!

Well, perhaps not _her_ blood, per se, but the royal blood of the rulers of the kingdom, certainly.

_You who cannot use magic are the shame of this royal family_!

Her mother's words struck out from the back of her mind, the memory of them having cut deep. They echoed there, a nagging doubt that she could not move past. She was a smear on her people's history, nothing more than a useless child to the family that she had never truly known. What was a mother, she wondered, but a woman who gave life to another? Did mothers have purpose or obligations after that to their children? The Queen of Reason was a dispassionate woman, cold as the ice that covered their lands.

Another shiver racked her thinly clad body, and she forced herself to keep her legs moving. She could not feel them beneath her. The snow crunched under the soles of her boots where it had soaked the leather and rendered her feet dead to the rest of her being. She wondered if they were the same shade of blue that her fingers had been the last time she checked. What did they call that, when the limbs froze and died while the rest of the body refused to give up struggling? _Frostbite._ Another humorless smile, this one pulling at the sore corners of her mouth. What a trite name for something so cruel and terrible. This was far worse than any mere torture that her sheltered mind could conceive of.

How did people survive this level of cold? Angela squeezed her eyes shut as she took a painful step forward. Her limbs felt too heavy, now stiff and uncooperative. Although her mind moved quickly and her thoughts were sporadic, it seemed that the adrenaline would not pass into her veins and motivate her body. Each inhalation hurt, the cold like a knife in her throat as she tried to take shallower breaths. How was it possible for people to live in a world that was so white, so merciless, and so very, very cold? There were no directions, no landmarks visible beneath the snow. Was there a sanctuary up ahead? Did everyone beyond the capital live with this oppressive sense of helplessness that currently engulfed her?

_A fitting demise_. . .her mother's calm voice came back to her, the memory of a pale and expressionless face following it.

Angela opened her soft purple eyes, hunching her shoulders up and holding herself tighter. If she had less pride, she would have died by now. She would have given up and succumbed to the clean expanse of nothing that made up the Sub-Zero Ice Fields. Angela may have been a spoiled princess, a foolish, sheltered little girl who had never before known cold or pain, but she would not die for anyone. Her life, at least, was her own. No matter who took away her title, who threw away her rights and citizenship, no matter who told her that she was worthless without magic, she would cling to that selfish desire to live at any cost. She did not need the Queen of Reason, did not need that bastard Koren, nor the old sage José; she needed no family and no friends for this. Angela was certain that all she needed was one more hour of life to pull herself through this frigid Hell.

Because—she thought to herself grimly as she continued walking, always aware of the creatures following her—she was alone and no one was going to save her, anyway.

* * *

The nights in Rolante were truly beautiful. Lise leaned out over the ramparts, letting the fierce wind whip through her long blonde hair with a smile and laugh. On nights like these she could see forever from the top of the castle walls, looking down the cliff side to the ocean hundreds of miles below. There were many tiny lights at the base of the mountain, and her smile only grew to see them there. That was the fishing village, Palo, so far away that she sometimes wondered how her people had acquired it; or perhaps why they bothered to keep it. When she was younger, she told herself it was kept down there for the same reason she kept a lit candle near the door of her room: monsters shied away from light and would keep to their hallway shadows and dark ocean depths. Besides, Palo made the Rolantian nights even more beautiful.

Whenever she snuck away to the ramparts like this, she thought about the kingdom and what it was made from. There were villages other than Palo scattered across the mountains. The rough red rock had eroded over time, giving way to vast plateaus and winding catacombs chiseled out by the wind. Her people thrived up here on the mountain, where they could see out into forever, and she felt close enough to heaven that she thought she might be able to touch the face of the Goddess if only she dared to reach up to do so. She hoped it would never have to change, even in this aging world.

Lise spread her arms wide and embraced the wind's caress, reveling in the strength of her people's prayers. That was what brought the wind to protect them, was it not? The wind was the embodiment of their prayers, their dreams, their hope and faith in the power of the Goddess. No other country could boast of their closeness to the Holy Lands like Rolante could; no other people had Stairways to Heaven and steps chiseled from stone that led all the way to the Father of the Winged Ones, the Goddess's most loyal and beloved of creatures after mankind. It was pride that filled her at those thoughts, a dignified sense of favor in the eyes of the Goddess. She would need to atone for it later.

Rolante was devout, both pious and pure, and surely that was why they had been blessed with the mountain and the wind. That was why Rolante had never fallen; why the Rolantian women had been born so strong and so wise, and had built the kingdom up from the rocks. The only place in Fa'Diel that rivaled their faith was the Holy City Wendell, but Rolantian queens did not travel there for pilgrimage and guidance when they were lost. The Holy City acknowledged their privileged place, and would send the sons and brothers of the High Priest to their blessed capital to study during their youth. Rolante trained their own clergy members, and were the only country in the world with priestesses of the Goddess.

There was nothing that could touch them; nothing that could taint the perfection that Rolante lived daily, by the will of the Goddess. Lise closed her eyes, and prayed for this feeling of peace and belonging to last for all of eternity.

But the wind was sometimes fickle: it was unwavering and complete like the faith of a child, but like a child, it was playful and teasing as well. The wind would come and go as it pleased, but it was always present when Rolante needed it most. Now, it slowed to a faint breeze that tickled her cheek and kissed her fair skin good-night. Lise sighed, brows furrowing and a disappointed frown taking up residence on her countenance. Her arms dropped back to her sides as she straightened away from the rampart walls. She looked out across the water far below into the darkness miles out from the shore, where the world disappeared into the beautiful, quiet night. The wind had been strange lately, and everyone in Rolante could feel it. Was it a sign of waning devotion? She could not imagine anyone's love for the Goddess to dwindle over time, and the state of the wind worried her greatly. If this continued, she did not know how much longer she could afford to sneak away to be with the Goddess and the wind of Rolante.

"Sister? Is that you up there?" the voice that rose up from the stairs behind her was quiet, meek and male and very young. Lise's smile returned in full force, and she turned away from the surrounding world to meet her little brother's concerned gaze.

"Éliot!" she said his name like it was the most important word in all of the world—and for her, it was. Her heart belonged to a deity and faith, but she would have thrown all three of them away if she thought he needed her to. She was more mother than sister to him, and he was more son than brother. Lise would have torn the mountain down around their country if necessary for him. "What are you doing up so late? _Au-maman_ will be worried if she finds you missing."

"Let her worry; I cannot sleep," he told her as he ascended the steps, his feet falling heavily even in the soft boots he wore. The woman they spoke of—Mother Aurélie—was an elderly maid who had cared for the children of the royal family since birth. Éliot was wearing a strange scowl that seemed out of place on his soft face in reference to the maid, and Lise wished for nothing more than to make it disappear. She opened her arms up to him, and he hurried into them with a beaming grin, his own thin arms wrapping around her waist as he pressed the side of his face against the thin leather armor covering her abdomen.

Éliot's birth had not been the same celebration as her own, and in a way, she felt guilty for that. She knew that it could not have been her fault that it had been a troubled pregnancy and a complicated delivery, but somehow she could not rid herself of that shameful feeling. She had known both parents; Lise was five years older than Éliot, and clearly remembered their kind, strong mother. It was hard to imagine that a woman who led armies and fought demons could be killed by something as sacred and joyous as childbirth. Their father was never quite the same after, either. King Joster tried to smile and fought to stay alive for both of them, but between his failing feeble body and the deep sorrow over the loss of his wife, he had never been a very good father to either.

But especially to Éliot. She held her brother tighter. Rolante did not have Crown Princes, or any real place in their hierarchy for sons. While she was a princess and the leader of Rolante's exalted Amazon Army, there was no role for Éliot to lose himself in. He was not a prince, or a general, or even an heir in the event that something happened to his sister. While daughters of the Rolantian royal family were carefully trained and educated, sons were forced to become scholars or join the clergy. Sons were married off quickly and were expected to have as many children as possible, in hopes that there would be daughters to take the throne. _Just in case_. It was a stupid rule, a barbaric custom far too similar to those practiced in the heathen country of Altena, but there was nothing that could be done.

The Goddess's laws could not—and, Lise reminded herself, _should not_—be altered, because the Goddess had no flaws and made no mistakes.

Éliot may not have ever known the love of his own mother, but his sister hoped that between herself and Mother Aurélie he did not feel abandoned or alone. She hoped that he knew how important he was to her, if nothing else. Lise petted his hair lightly with one hand for a moment before pushing him back just far enough to tilt his chin up and look him in his pale eyes.

"Éliot—" she began in a teasing manner, playfully scolding him for his childish stubbornness, but was interrupted with a curious question:

"_Lisette_, what are those? Are they birds?" Éliot was peering around her arm at the horizon, and he pointed to the dark outlines in the sky. Lise turned abruptly, releasing him so that she could lean out over the edge of the ramparts again. Birds that large, this high up? Preposterous. . .Lise had never encountered birds near the castle; not even the Mana-deformed Needlebirds came up this high. She squinted, unbelieving of the sight in front of her. The objects in the sky were far too round, too symmetrical, and moving too quickly to be natural. How had she missed them before, even in all this darkness? "I thought the air was too thin for birds, sister. . ."

That was when it struck her like a slap in the face, and she gasped despite herself. Ships. Those were wooden ships in the sky, floating towards the castle beneath giant balloons. She did not have time to disbelieve, to wonder how it was that something like that was possible.

"Get inside, Éliot," she commanded, her leader's mask cooling slipping into place. "And tell Father to pray for wind."

"But—"

"Éliza!" Lise shouted down to the warrior on the lower terrace, who looked up with a startled jerk of the head. "Rouse the guard and get that trebuchet turned around! I want our best throwers lining the upper walls! _We're under attack!_"

* * *

_How am I still alive. . .?_

The young prince lifted aching limbs from the moss covered ground, pressing the soft palms of his hands against his closed eyes. Behind his lids, he could feel a dull pulsing pain, could feel the scratchy texture of dried blood peeling off his skin from around his fingertips. The flakes caught on the thin light hairs that covered his face, pulling some of them out by the follicle. His whole body felt bruised and mistreated, as though someone had skinned him alive and ripped his bones apart to beat blood from his hide before shoving it all forcefully back inside. He groaned, and tried to roll over onto his stomach.

Instantly, the young prince regretted that attempt.

White hot lances of fresh pain shot up through his legs and back when he tried to move them, and he cried out weakly against it. His arms fell limply back to the forest floor. He struggled to open his eyes, and the blood on his face cracked around the movement like a thin seal of new skin over a pup's lids.

The world was too bright and too dark all at once when his vision returned to him, reality lacking shapes or true definition. Everything was hazy, each brilliant color flowing into the next and distorting the sights around him. He could not smell anything, could not hear the usual sounds of the forest. The young prince blinked rapidly in the hopes that that would help to speed his adjustment. When at last true sight returned to him, he craned his neck up—pushing past the stabbing pain in his head—to glance down the length of his body.

This gift of life must have been the result of the change back to his normal form, he decided, looking carefully at the twisted and mangled _lump_ that remained of his left leg. The other was fairly normal, and did not seem broken from this angle. But his left leg was definitely beyond help. Was his hybrid form truly so powerful that it could bring him back from death? That body, that werewolf version of himself, had been devastated by the fall, he reasoned. The transformation normally shattered bones and reformed them into new shapes, ripped organs and skin to make them fit the new structure. It was only logical to assume that the transformation itself had some basic healing abilities.

Perhaps that was the true power of the Beast people; they had to be killed twice.

The young prince forced himself up into a sitting position, teeth clenched together and lips curled back in a snarling grimace. Oh, Luna be _damned_ did it hurt! From there, he slowly dragged his body backwards, deeper into the forest. He wanted to get away from the massive walls surrounding the capital city as soon as possible. Finally, with his bruised back resting against the rough trunk of a tree, the young prince relaxed slightly, breathing heavily from the exertion. He looked up at the dark stone expanse in front of him, the top of the ramparts blocked by the overhang of branches.

". . .That animal is not my father," he murmured to himself, the title arousing a bitter hatred deep in the pits of his very being. He had never before known of feelings this passionate, this all-consuming. The young prince was sure that, if allowed, these dark feelings would overrun him, devour him, and leave behind only a haunted shell. Yes, he could let himself become a monster fed by anger, the kind of brooding beast that so many of his kind had become. He could grow to be like Lugar, driven only by his hatred for those who had taken so much away from him. The blame did not have to land solely on the Beast King; he could let this emotion seep out into the rest of his people, until his hatred for them grew into a desire to for their blood.

He could, but he would not let himself follow in his father's footsteps.

"_Ooo_. _That_ doesn't look good," commented a bright and grating voice from off to one side. The young prince's head jerked up to locate its source. From the shadow of a nearby tree, he could just barely make out the figure and the strange three points of its drooping hat with his injured vision. The figure straightened from where it had been leaning back with one foot curled up beneath it, the sole of its comical shoe resting flat against the bark, coming slightly closer and offering the young prince a bow. "Perhaps _I_ can be of some assistance, Your Majesty?"

A growl snuck past half-human lips as recognition dawned on him.

"I am not the King's pet; don't think that helping me will put you on better terms with _him_, _foreigner_."

"Oh no, no, no! It's not like that at all, you see," the foreigner—that strange and dark jester from atop the wall—exclaimed emphatically, no longer bowing but instead kneeling in the moss at his side. This close, the young prince could see that beneath the heavy black and dark blue makeup, its face was sunken and the skin stretched too tight over the bones as though it had been borrowed from a smaller head. The planes and angles of the face were sharp but androgynous, more corpse-like than human, and its teeth were too big behind its thin, flapping lips. "I'm here on my own behalf, and that of my Master's, not the King's. I think that _I_ can be of use to you and _your_ cause, and you can be _very_ useful to me and mine."

It had a slippery, sleazy tone to go with that gravelly voice, what would have been a charming and playful lilt had it not been so coarse. Those painted lips were spread wide in a crooked smile that took up too much of its face, as though the expression had torn the corners of the mouth until reaching the bottom of its prominent cheekbones. The young prince regarded the jester thoughtfully, wondering what it would have smelled like had his nose been working. It seemed to take his silence for doubt, and quickly began to elaborate, the barest hint of worry tainting its voice.

"_You_ want to kill someone, and I _need_ someone else to die—"

"You're a court jester." A statement, not a question. It faltered at the bland tone of the young Beastman.

"Well. . .yes—"

"Who deals in death?" he cocked his head to the side, raising a brow faintly in confused disbelief.

"Death is just another illusion," it answered with a small, meaninglessly vague gesture of one skeletal hand. "But that's another matter. Point is, the King's little 'hunting party' is a farce and won't get anything worthwhile done. They'll see those curs coming, and they'll never make it past the caves, let alone into the temple's sanctuary. I can fix your leg up like new, and all _you_ have to do in return is take a package to Wendell for me. When you get back, I can make sure that you have all the strength of the Beast people at your fingertips, and surely that's enough to kill anything outside of the Holy Lands and Underworld."

"You want me to be your little messenger-dog?"

"It's a very important package."

". . .What strength are you talking about?"

"Dolan's bloodlust, locked away in his pretty prison at the top of the Moonreading Tower, of course. I can get you there, past all the magic wards and Mana-poisoned brutes that roam those long halls, and all you have to do is arrive in Wendell ahead of Lugar."

"And my leg?" he asked uncertainly, glancing down to the mutilated appendage.

The jester of death only smiled wider.

"Deal?" it held out its hand, perhaps to shake, but that was a human custom the young prince was unfamiliar with. He stared at the discolored flesh covering the wasted fingers and realized that he was not entirely sure that the jester was wearing make-up at all. He wished he could smell, and did not feel quite so blind. It took his hand while he hesitated, and a sharp and electric pain raced up his arm, stabbing deep into his chest at the contact. He gasped but could not breathe; the air around him felt heavy, stale and unmoving.

His bones snapped and cracked back into place, the tiny shards pulling themselves free from the inside of his thigh to recreate his shattered femur. A howling scream escaped him then, just as his face was stretching out into that wolfish hybrid-muzzle from his natural transformations. The cartilage was popping as it reformed, bubbling up from where the Beast King had smashed the tissue into the bone behind it.

Whatever magic the jester had used left the young prince feeling sick and nauseous in the wake of the pain, with a dark and oily sensation swimming around in his intestines like it was alive. He coughed, shutting his eyes to the light and colors of the world, wishing he could tone down his sense of smell as it suddenly returned to him in full force. The stench of death, the sickly reek of plant decay, was clinging to the inside of his nostrils, crawling onto his tongue so that he could taste the rot surrounding him. His fingers dug into the ground at his sides only to find that the moss had shriveled and died; it was brittle and disintegrated at the rough touch. Behind him, the thick bark of the tree was falling off in broken chunks, the wide trunk soft as though from months of decomposition.

The death jester grabbed his chin with its other hand, and when the young prince opened his eyes again, he was horrified at just how wrong he had been. It was not makeup but grave dirt and chemical reactions that discolored the taut skin; the very earth herself had stained its body that blue-black color. Where once he had thought that it had eyes, he saw only an uninterrupted darkness stretching out into a place far more frightening than eternity. The source of the death-smell came from inside that grinning skull as it whispered:

"_Deal_."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer/Note:** I do not own Seiken Densetsu 3 or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). They are the property of Square, and the game designer/creator. I am not making any money off this story; it is being written for my own sick twisted amusement. All original concepts in this story are original (_duh_) and belong to me, or have had all rights handed over to me for the duration of this story. Do not steal. I would like to thank The Mad Poet, my beta and a fellow fan, for being a rampant geek and helping to flesh out much of the world history that you will find in this fic. This story may contain violence, psychological trauma, romance, flashbacks, language, crude humor, accents written into dialogue, a fair sprinkling of creative and artistic/realistic liberties, and possibly sex or sexual references. If you're not mature enough to handle all that, then just leave now. Also, I will not translate any other language in this story unless someone in the chapter other than the person speaking knows that language, and certain countries in Fa'Diel will have their own national language that corresponds to a language in our world. If this annoys you, read something else.

**  
Moments:  
Chapter Three  
**

"_Lisette, don't go too high up, now,_" the voice was soft and warm, flitting up to her ears on the gentle mountain breeze. It was nearly noon, and Lise looked down from the ledge she had clambered up onto, smiling when she saw her father's uplifted face. His eyes, though unseeing, were open; the color obscured by a filmy white shroud that had been present for as long as she could remember. He had told her—years ago, when even she still considered herself to be small—that he had not always been blind. When he was just young Joster, he said, he had had eyes like an eagle and could see into forever.

Which was why he was blind now, he had explained, taking little Lise into his lap. He had looked into forever with those brilliantly blue eyes of his and seen the face of the Goddess. The Goddess was more beautiful and holy than could be imagined, and to protect him from the awesome power of Her existence, She had covered his vision with a white veil that he carried in his head to this day. Little Lise believed every single word of that story.

"_No matter how high up you go, remember that you still have to come down."_

"No." The reply felt heavy in her dry mouth, and did not fit with the clear sky and feathery wind. It did not fit with the strange warmth from the sun behind her, or the oddly flickering shadows forming on the ledge. From somewhere in the distance, she could hear a fire burning and someone screaming; the distinctive sound of crushing stone and the clang of metal drifted up from the din. Her pack felt heavy across her small shoulders, but she did not remember bringing one. Lise squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head as if to clear it, before opening her eyes again and looking down for King Joster—

—Who was not there, because it was _not_ nearly noon, and she was _not_ a little girl climbing boulders.

It was after midnight, and her home was being burned by invaders; it was not the sun behind her, but the castle Rolante. The shadows were cast by the light of flames, not the sun or moon. The screams were from her people. The sound of battle came from her soldiers being slaughtered by the Navarren ninja who had descended from the flying ships overhead like so many locusts.

She adjusted the body thrown across her shoulders, shifting the weight so that it was more manageable for the climb, and kept heading up.

_You still have to come down_.

Her father's words from so long ago seemed loud in the relative darkness of the mountain. And she knew that he was right, as he always seemed to be: she would have to get back down later. Even the Amazons, who fought and trained on the sides of the mountain practically from birth, had never reached the summit. The only way to the summit was up the Stairway to the Heavens, guarded by the Father of the Winged Ones, and Lise knew better than to attempt that climb while tired and without water. Besides, that pathway only led to the Goddess's throne.

There was bitterness in that thought, a sense of betrayal that Lise could not hide. They had guarded the Goddess and the mountain piously, they had been devout and abided by all the laws and rules set down in Her Holy Books. So why had the Goddess abandoned them? Where was the wind now, when they needed it most? How was it possible that the City That Never Fell had fallen in one night to desert savages?

The rock face she clung to had been worn smooth by the rough winds of earlier years, forcing her to pause and look around for another way up. Sweat poured down from her brow, stinging her eyes and dripping off the tip of her nose when she exhaled. Her thighs and biceps ached from the laborious climb; she could feel her legs tremble as she braced them against another rock and pulled herself to the next stone.

If the Goddess truly loved her and her people, why had She allowed those monsters to take Éliot?

That, Lise realized, was where the bulk of her anger and despair came from. Not from the fact that the raiders had killed her father and were in the process of burning her home to the ground. It did not come from the shame of having to tell her second-in-command to retreat—

"_Fall back!" her voice was strained when she tried to cry out the order, smoke and fatigue taking their toll on her vocal cords. Éliza stared at her as if she had gone mad, pulling her spear from the torso of one of the ninja as she turned._

"_To_ what_, my lady?"_

—but it rose up, ugly and terrible, when she thought about losing Éliot. They had taken her brother. She had had to watch as one of the ninja carried her little brother, thrown unceremoniously over one shoulder, had gripped the shaft of her spear tightly as a strange woman in billowing silks had stroked Éliot's terrified face with glee. Lise had been pinned down on a higher terrace at the time, and had not been able to come to his rescue; Éliza had dragged her down into the winding hallways in search of an escape route shortly after. Those Navarren bastards had kidnapped her Éliot, and while she was grateful that his life had been spared, she would still kill them for taking him.

Maybe this was all just a cruel test of piety. Perhaps the Goddess still loved and cherished the people of Rolante. Virtue was born of faith cured by fire, was it not? Lise held onto that last shred of hope, the hope that the Goddess had a plan and would right all of these hideous wrongs if only the young Amazon believed and acted accordingly. Yes, Lise needed to keep the faith alive. She _had_ to believe, because the alternative was far more terrifying.

Lise reached the top of the cliff side where the rock flattened out and a thin layer of red soil had collected on its surface. She eased the corpse off of her shoulders, laying its frail form out on its back as she rested a moment. Curling up beneath one of those cold dead arms, Lise hugged the body close to her own, her ear pressed against its silent chest. She tried not to cry when she whispered:

"Don't worry, Father; we'll come back down in the morning."

* * *

Carlie did not mean to eavesdrop. Really, she had just wanted to find Big Brother Heath and make sure that he was okay because he had been missing for almost a week. She was worried about him, which was why she had snuck out of the Holy City last night and then wandered around in the middle of a forest, completely lost, for a whole day. Carlie knew that it was rude and unbecoming of cute little girls to eavesdrop, but she could not help it. She leaned forward in her hiding spot, a large and prickly bush with a hollow center she had found an hour earlier when the sky had darkened and threatened rain, to peer out through its scraggly branches.

Standing with its back to her was a gaunt figure wearing a big funny hat in the center of the forest clearing. It looked like a jester's hat, with three drooping points and little bells on the end that dangled when the figure shook its head. Carlie thought that it must have been a man, because it looked far too skinny—standing there with hands on bony hips—and much too tall to be a girl. But it seemed _wrong _to give the jester gender, as though defining it as male or female would somehow put it on par with its companion. She smiled a little when she spotted the edge of the other man's traveling cloak, and recognized the familiar garb of a journeyman priest. The two people were in the middle of a heated debate, though Carlie did not know about what. It was the sound of those jingling bells that had caught her attention and woken her from a light doze. She got the feeling, though, that she was missing out on something very important.

The air was filled with the heavy smell of ozone, of tension and the residue of spent Mana. She could hear the far-away booming of distant thunder and the light patter of stray raindrops coming down from the high tree boughs. While Carlie could not see the journeyman priest's face, she could see that his once-white clothes were stained and slightly travel-worn; there were dark splotches of dirt or something heavier on the legs of his pants. The jester let out a sharp and grating laugh that broke through the quiet of the forest night, hurting poor Carlie's ears and sending shivers down her spine.

"As if you have a choice in the matter, _High Priest Heath._" It spat the title out like a curse, as if it were something filthy and vile that it did not want to be associated with. Carlie wrinkled up her nose in confusion where she crouched. The title, no matter how mocking, did not make any sense: Heath was only a journeyman priest. Her Grampa was the current High Priest of the Goddess back at Wendell, and while Carlie often joked that he was as old as the Mana Tree itself, he was healthy as could be and not currently looking to pass on the job to someone else. "The boy's already on his way."

"I won't let you get away with this, _jester_." Heath was usually so kind and gentle that it was downright bizarre to hear him sound so vehement. In all of Carlie's many memories of him, she could not recall him ever being mad or hostile towards another person. Why was he so angry with this frightful jester? What had happened to change her Heath like this? "Did you think we would not notice the signs? We are not fools: the Goddess statues cry blood and the Mana is fading from our Holy sites. The shield is up, and neither you nor your _pet _can pass."

"My dear boy!" the tone was patronizing, amused, and more than just slightly vicious with its intent when the jester spoke next. It was a strange combination of emotions that Carlie had never before heard but that was unmistakably open. The jester shrugged bony shoulders and held up spindly blue-black hands. "Do you really think that will stop us? The pawns are all in place, and there's _nothing _you can do to slow our progress. Your time is up, Heath."

Carlie covered her mouth with one hand as she watched, staring as the air around the jester's hands twisted and distorted, sucking in the surrounding light and color. She was mesmerized by the ongoing spell, trying her hardest not to gasp and give away her hidden position. Heath reached out then, stepping further into her limited field of vision with his mouth opening to say something—to shout, to cry out, to cast a spell of his own—but the sound died before she could identify it when the dark jester grabbed Heath's outstretched hand. It half-turned, pulling Heath closer. Carlie could make out the jester's strange and unnatural profile; skin stretched tight over an angular face that was no more masculine than it was feminine, covered in black and dark blue makeup with a cruelly smirking and painted mouth. The single visible eye was only a black and bottomless socket rimmed with red, its darkness staring at her favorite Heath. . .

She realized she was screaming only after Heath had disappeared and that grinning skull appeared just in front of her hiding place, thin lips spread wide to bare too-large teeth. Carlie bit herself in her rush to silence.

"_Boo._" The stench of rot hit her square in the face as it exhaled the word, as wasted fingers reached in through the branches. It was going to grab her by the arm. It was going to pull her from the relative safety of her hiding spot and make her disappear. Carlie knew this as she shrunk back against the inner wall of the bush, as she stared—horror stricken—at that corpse-like hand. It was going to rip her to pieces and eat the choicest bits because that was what big scary monsters did when they found cute little girls spying on them in the woods after dark.

But the hand never reached her.

A startled shout escaped the jester as it was slammed aside, a veritable whirlwind of short yellow fur and torn cloth replacing its form and then quickly falling out of view with an angry snarl. Carlie crouched, rooted in her spot for a moment before scrambling forward to peer out of the bush at the fight. She could hear the animal growling; a strange and guttural barking sound that was cut short by a blast of stinking wind and a sudden pained yelp. The figures came back into her vision just in time for her to see the jester stand on shaking legs, one of its bright sleeves torn to reveal a mangled, bloodless arm. She could see the pale gleam of bone amidst the ruptured blue-black flesh.

"_You?!"_ came its gravely screech, and Carlie's eyes darted about for any sign of the animal that had attacked it. She could not see it from where she was now. The jester sneered, cursing. "I don't have time for this. I'll deal with _you_ later, little prince, just as soon as I'm done with that _priest_."

The jester disappeared, much in the same way that Heath had. No flash of light, no smoke or mirrors; he simply was no longer there in the forest clearing, like an illusion that had finally been seen through. Carlie crawled out from the bush cautiously, looking around for the animal that had saved her. She spotted it, there on the ground where it had been thrown by the jester's spell, body shivering and chest heaving. In the dark, it was hard to tell what it was from where it was lying, sprawled on its back with its head angled away from her.

What kind of beast _was_ that thing? It was bigger than a man, and almost shaped like one, but it could not have been a man. The creature, whatever it was, had a thick muscular body and pronounced rib cage covered in short blond fur. Its stomach sunk in low, adding emphasis to the barrel-like quality of the chest. Its clawed feet had been wrapped with dirty bandages around the arches, and its legs—covered by some kind of strange second skin—were bent back at an angle.

The animal jerked once, twice. Carlie paused, frightened. It writhed on the ground, a long, low howl escaping it before being shaken into silence as its form was wracked by what looked to be a violent seizure. She heard the snap and crack of bones being broken, followed by a wet ripping sound of skin. Her gaze was locked on its twitching body as a short-lived spray of blood coated the nearby fauna. It seemed to shrink, legs thrashing momentarily and arms twisting unnaturally before the whole body lay deathly still for several minutes. Then one wide-palmed hand was raised from the mud, hovering uncertainly in the air for the briefest of moments before falling onto the animal's face.

_It_, the strange savior that she had at first glance mistaken for some kind of rabid dog, was a young man dressed in baggy, fraying pants made from animal hide and a short dark vest of the same material. He was not quite so hairy or muscular as she had first thought, as if parts of his body had collapsed in on themselves. Carlie was not sure how she had thought that he was not a man, but could not dismiss that initial impression either. He _had _looked like a monster in the shade when lying like that; perhaps it was due to angles and the way the dim moonlight streamed down between the leaves. Maybe he really had been a monster until only moments ago, and those fitful spasms had been a sign of some kind of transformation; that explanation seemed almost reasonable, if not for its inherent impossibility. A moan escaped him, and Carlie ran to him, falling to her knees at his side as his other hand came up.

"Big Brother!" she cried the familiar title, grasping the raised hand with both of her own. The young man jerked again at the words, recoiling slightly as one eye cracked open from behind short, splayed fingers. This close, Carlie could see that there was something wrong with the young man's features: his whole face seemed to bulge forward, giving him a snout-like appearance. In addition to that, the blood on his face was smeared, making the short blond hair on his face obvious—it really did look like fur when brushed the wrong way. Carlie squeezed his hand, determined not to be scared of this young man and to help. "Is Big Brother okay? Tell Carlie where it hurts. Carlie is a cleric."

"K-karly?" the young man said her name slowly, as if testing its sound on his tongue. He had an odd way of speaking, a harsh and growly way of saying things. Mostly, though, Carlie noticed that he sounded confused, and she wondered if he understood that it was her name and not some foreign word. It occurred to her then that it was possible that he did not speak Common, or that he had suffered a blow to the head.

"Carlie is the cute little girl you just saved!" she exclaimed, resting one finger on her nose to clarify that the cute little girl was, indeed, herself. He furrowed his brow, and closed his eye. "Carlie is grateful for your protection, Big Brother, and knows some healing. Tell Carlie where you're hurt."

"Saved. . . Protection. . ." the young man repeated Carlie's words in a daze, blinking rapidly as he looked up to the bits of dark sky visible between the foliage. He removed his hand from Carlie's grasp, the other sliding off his face. She touched his chest gently, flinching as her fingers drifted over his equally fuzzy and blood-soaked pectorals, but she could not find a wound there. He pushed her hand away from him, shaking his head slowly. He _must _have been in pain, after all that had happened, but perhaps he simply did not want to frighten her anymore than he already had. A low noise, soft but not quite a whimper, left him, followed almost seamlessly by his response to her command. "—Not hurt. Fine."

Carlie sat back on her heels, fidgeting with the hem of one long sleeve. Her savior was a very strange big brother. Not at all like her Heath. Heath. . . what had happened to him? Was he all right? Hurt? Dead? She wished he was here with her now. Heath would have known exactly what to do. He would have cast a healing spell on her new big brother, would have made whatever pain there was go away. Her Heath would have held her close and let her cry about how scared she was and how much she just wanted to _go home_.

But Heath was _not_ here, and Carlie did not know how to control that kind of Mana. She knew basic healing; she knew about herbs and poultices; she could sew up cuts and make tourniquets and set broken bones, but she could not cast yet. Carlie was just a little cleric, after all, and she would just have to make do without Heath for right now. Worried that her savior's silence was a sign that he was losing consciousness, she hesitantly asked: "D-did you know that bad man, Big Brother?"

"Bad man?"

"The one who was going to hurt poor Carlie."

Her savior scowled and sat up, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and ruffling his tangled blond hair with the other. Something flicked up there, and for a moment, in the dark, it almost looked like he had ears hidden in all that thick hair. But that was silly, of course; who ever heard of men with dog ears?

"_Bah_. Deathjester, bad man. Uses and _hurts_. Promises—all lies." His sluggish and dazed reactions seemed to be fading, if somewhat slowly. Carlie was glad. Maybe that meant he had not hit his head as hard as she thought. "Dark magic kills Karl. _Guilty_."

Carlie nodded, surprised at how well she could comprehend him through his odd way of talking. She placed a hand on his thigh, frightened by the bitter hatred in the young man's voice and by the sticky warmth seeping in through her robes. How was it that he had bled so much but claimed he was not hurt? The scary man—the Deathjester—had not bled from its wound, after all; all of this dark gore belonged to her savior. And yet she could not argue with him, could not force him to submit to her pokes and prods and bodily searches. She gave him a small squeeze and offered a sympathetic smile when he turned to look at her, bewildered.

"Carlie knows how you feel," she said, quickly continuing when the young man opened his mouth to rebuke that claim. "It took Heath and made him disappear. Heath is Carlie's favorite; he is Carlie's big brother who keeps her safe and takes care of her. Carlie has known Heath her whole life. And now he's gone. . ."

"Disappear not mean dead," came the quiet reply, and the young man covered her little hand with his own. She smiled at the warmth of the contact, but wished he had taken the time to wipe it off first. Beneath the slickness of blood and the slimy feeling of mud that clung to his short fingers, was an odd roughness as if his palms were covered in heavy calluses. It reminded her, vaguely, of shaking hands with a dog.

"Do you have a name, Big Brother?"

". . .Name?"

Again, confusion; though she got the distinct impression it was about the word's meaning. Carlie nodded, and elaborated: "_Name_. What you go by. Your parents gave it to you—"

"Father give nothing, only _take_. No need Father-name." Carlie shrunk back, surprised that the anger was greater for this elusive father than for even the Deathjester. The young man still held her hand, though, and kept her close. He locked eyes with her, the small whimpering sound returning and followed again by words as if part of the sentence. "—need new name. Karly give."

Carlie chewed her lower lip thoughtfully for a moment, trying to decide on a good, solid boy's name that her savior would be able to pronounce correctly. He seemed to like sharp sounds, but those were not popular in Wendell. Carlie tried to think back to all the boys and young men she had known over the years: Heath and Mick, Avery and Fisk, Banyan and Gage and Norris and Miles. But none of those names sounded quite right. When she finally came up with one, she beamed brightly at him.

"Then you're Big Brother Kevin now," she announced, watching him nod in approval of this name. It felt strange, Carlie thought, that she was naming him in the woods, like she would have done if he really had been an injured pup that came to her rescue and not another human being. As an afterthought, she added a pressing question to the statement. "But Big Brother Kevin, what are you doing out here all alone in the middle of the night? Aren't you scared of monsters?"

"Can ask Karly same," Kevin grunted as he pushed himself up to his feet, now gripping Carlie's hand and pulling her up with him. She cried out a little in surprise; he lifted her with only one arm completely off the ground before setting her back down on unsteady feet. Carlie clung to that strong arm even after she had regained her footing. "Kevin need Wendell. Not want to go, but big need. Want to help Karl, but _sick_. Deathjester make Kevin sick, go mad with need."

"C-Carlie is from Wendell," she tried not to sound as uneasy about it as she felt, but she imagined from the dubious look he gave her that she had failed. Either that, or he could smell her undirected fear. She swallowed hard, and wished that she knew what he meant by _sick_. "Carlie's Grampa can heal Big Brother Kevin, no matter how sick. But Carlie is lost right now: if we could find the main road or Lake Astoria, then Carlie could lead the way to the caves, and Carlie knows the way through the caves."

Kevin wrapped his arm around her, squeezing her against his fuzzy side where his vest was too short to cover. Carlie had to wonder if this was normal, or if Kevin was just. . ._different_, in that strange way that made her think of a big, overgrown puppy. He gave her a reassuring—if somewhat oddly wolfish—grin.

"Kevin help Karly find way home."

* * *

The captain and crew had been suspiciously watching Jad from afar for quite some time now, whispering and grumbling in hushed tones that something did not feel right. Angela agreed: something was definitely not right, and she did not need to have any worldly experience to notice it. But they had to dock at the city to let off passengers and restock for the next leg of their trip, and could not delay it any longer.

For a busy port city, Angela thought that the harbor was oddly quiet. There were no other ships docked, no bustling hired hands or slaves on the docks. From where they had anchored themselves a few miles out, the entire city looked dead. True, there was smoke rising up from inside the thick castle walls, and the banners still flew, but that did not mean anything. When the ship from Elrand finally dropped anchor at the harbor, no dock hands rushed forward to help with the passenger ramp or tie the ropes to keep the ship from drifting back out. No one began unloading goods. Angela pulled her hood up and checked to make sure that the little jewelry she had left after paying for her fare was hidden, and followed the other passengers off.

It was not until after she had stepped off the boat that she spotted the group of armed Beasts heading toward them.

Angela could not help but stare. Certainly, there were still Beastpeople in Altena, though less now that the ideas of rebellion had been planted and so many had escaped during the Uprising fifteen years ago. People were less easy about keeping slaves that were strong enough to rip their owners in half, but many still wanted to flaunt their wealth and social status. Nowadays, Beastpeople wore chains and muzzles and were not allowed to congregate in groups of ten or more. They were delegated to tasks of manual labor, and spent their lives lifting heavy things because they lacked the mental capacity to do anything else. The castle had its own slaves, in addition to laborers, who followed their masters with bowed heads and tails curled under. They brought food into the dining halls and acted as litter-bearers for the elderly court officials. Their women—delicate, pretty little monsters during the day—were kept in a separate part of the castle where they acted as handmaids for the upper nobility. Angela had even owned a Beast at one point; an ugly young female with blue hair and thick dark skin, a wide smile that showed off sharp and discolored dog teeth and crinkled the corners of watery brown eyes. Angela had been very small back then and did not remember much. After the Uprising, though, her mother had deemed it unsafe to leave the future queen alone with such monsters, considering all the bloodshed they had caused in the capital. Her handmaid was replaced by an Altenan peasant girl who was much nicer and cleaner and not nearly as vile.

Because of this, Angela had spent her whole life looking past Beastpeople, and she had never seen anything like this. They were organized into ranks and marched like professional soldiers. They wore thick hide armor and metal plating, not the typical slave garb or rags. They were carrying weapons and scowling darkly, lips curled back from sharp and ugly teeth. The largest of the pack was a towering wolfman with black and dark grey fur and the palest blue eyes that she had ever seen, but the thickness of that fur and the brand-scar on his right bicep gave away his origins: he was Altenan, and perhaps because of that fact it was somehow far more believable that he was in charge. It made sense that their leader had to be from Altena, and had forced the others into a semblance of order that they probably did not understand. Altenans were smarter, after all, and did things better than others, even if they were only dogs and slaves.

The Beasts encircled their group with weapons held low, a motley assortment of varying polearms. Angela was pressed into the middle with the other women, hidden from immediate danger behind the wide backs of the crew and male travelers. She could see that the first mate had a hand on his sword, while the man in front of her seemed to be readying a spell.

"Stand down. This city is under the control of His Majesty the Beast King and his people," the Beast leader spoke Common clearly, with a sharp and controlled Altenan accent, and Angela realized that she was shocked by how well he spoke. How was it that this animal was so damn smart, anyway? Because that was what Beastmen were: they were just dogs that had been poisoned by Mana like so many other monsters and made barely sentient. They had no culture and no language of their own. The Beastpeople were about as close to being human as Sanguins were. Angela fidgeted with her hood, making sure that it had not slipped back while she had been staring like an open-mouthed idiot. "Do as you are told and you will not be harmed. Fail to comply, and. . ."—he grinned wolfishly, teeth bared and eyes narrowed maliciously –"And we feed your broken bodies to the wolves."

The captain stepped forward, his hands help up in the universal sign of peace. "We want none of your trouble. Let us get back on our ship, and we'll be on our way."

"I think you misunderstand," the leader said coolly. "You're not leaving, and neither is your ship. You _will _comply with my orders."

Another Beast, this one with light brown and white fur, stepped forward at a wave from the Altenan beast. His brand, like so many former slaves, marked him as being from the merchant city and slave capital of Fa'Diel, Byzel. He carried a vicious looking polearm of some kind that Angela could not name. The metal tip was wide and relatively flat, the edges like saw-teeth. It was affixed to the wooden shaft by means of a double-pointed nail driven through both materials, long enough that the ends could still puncture easily. Though Angela had no doubt that the weapon could serve its purpose well, she was not surprised to note that it did not seem to be very well made. It was only to be expected from animals; craftsmanship was probably not something they much cared for. He turned the weapon around, jamming the wooden shaft between the first mate and the man he was standing next to.

The first mate drew his sword, the blade snapping out and biting deep into the wood. A small fireball escaped the hands of the man in front of Angela, catching one of the brutes in the gut. It was a short-lived skirmish, though, as the Beastmen were quick to retaliate. Their hideous weapons tore into the ship's crew members with precision and ease; Angela watched the fight unfold in a state of shock with a stark and naked clarity that frightened her almost as much as the nature of the brutality itself. Suddenly it seemed that everyone was screaming; many were in pain, but it was mostly fear that stained the air. The Beast from Byzel had the first mate's throat clenched between his teeth. Another had his paw-hand over a man's face, claws dug into bloody eye sockets and dragging the thrashing body away from the group. The stink of gore and singed fur assaulted Angela's senses, panic on the back of her tongue. Something sharp pricked her stomach, and she glanced down to see a red-streaked spear tip protruding from the lower back of the spell caster.

"The rest of you will be searched, questioned, and then released into the main city. If you resist, we will slaughter you and hang your children from the castle ramparts," the Altenan animal spoke above the fearful sobbing of the survivors, dropping the body of the ship's captain on the dock with a heavy and lifeless _thud_. His statement had been made without remorse; it was factually spoken, a completely unarguable and utterly terrifying mandate. Angela was shaking, and she did not feel the woman beside her take her hand until it was squeezed roughly. The woman was shaking hard, her free hand clutching her son's shoulder; the boy's face was hidden in the folds of her skirt. Angela returned the pressure, hoping that it would reassure the woman.

"You. . .You're a _monster_!" the woman shouted at the leader, her eyes closed tightly, head down. He paused in mid-turn, glancing back to the beaten group with a curious look. Angela silently begged the woman to hold her tongue, but to no avail. "It's no wonder they keep you chained like dogs—that's all you are! A vicious, wild _dog_!"

". . .I am an animal because that is what your people demanded I become," he spoke slowly, his voice sharp and biting. Those frighteningly intelligent eyes were locked on them, and Angela swore that he was looking at her. It felt like he knew that she was there, like he could read her thoughts and see straight through her soul. She felt afraid. The woman's grip on her hand tightened. He began to walk towards them. "Didn't you breed us to be this way? To be only cruel and merciless Beasts, incapable of rational thought? Wasn't this your intention all along: to drive us into this rabid madness to justify your own actions? My violence is your mirror. Look deep, and behold the fruits of all your _humanity_."

He growled the final word, the Beasts around them parting to give him way. The Altenan animal reached out to their huddled forms; it was not a straight grab for the woman, but instead angled downward for her son. Angela could not believe it. He was going to punish her through her child for speaking out. Without thinking, she stepped in front of the quivering woman, his paw brushing off her hip.

"Don't—" she tried to sound brave, tried to keep her voice steady when she told him off, but her throat closed around the words as his paw came up. He pushed her hood back; his lips curling up to bare his teeth in an angry snarl. Angela could not breathe, could not blink; it took all of her strength just to stand there, to keep her legs from giving out. He grabbed her hair, quickly wrapping it around his hand once before pulling it hard. She cried out, the sound half-gasped. The woman she had protected released her at the same time, moving back to hide behind someone else in the trembling group. Angela stumbled forward a little, but caught herself on his broad chest. It was better than falling to her knees in front of him.

"¿_Que é este_?" it was murmured softly to her in Altenan; his head was tilted down, hot breath on her ear. Her blood ran cold. She tried to push him back, planted her hands firmly on his armored pectorals, but it was a useless gesture. It would have been like trying to push away a mountain. He let her take a small step back, his other paw coming up to grip the collar of her cloak. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing them fall. She bit her tongue and tried to meet his gaze. He smiled, and it sent shivers up her spine, continuing in their native language. "Did you know that I was once a palace slave? I always wanted to have a pet, just to see what it was like to be on the other end, but I could never seem to get my paws on the right girl: only an Altenan _lady_ who looked like the Queen of Reason would do."

He paused then, letting his words sink in before emitting a low growl from the back of his throat. His smile, however, did not falter, and perhaps that was the most frightening part of what he said next:

"I am going to chain you to my throne and keep you like the ill-bred bitch you are, _Valda_."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer/Note:** I do not own Seiken Densetsu 3 or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). They are the property of Square, and the game designer/creator. I am not making any money off this story; it is being written for my own sick twisted amusement. All original concepts in this story are original (_duh_) and belong to me, or have had all rights handed over to me for the duration of this story. Do not steal. I would like to thank The Mad Poet, my beta and a fellow fan, for being a rampant geek and helping to flesh out much of the world history that you will find in this fic. This story may contain violence, psychological trauma, romance, flashbacks, language, crude humor, accents written into dialogue, a fair sprinkling of creative and artistic/realistic liberties, and possibly sex or sexual references. If you're not mature enough to handle all that, then just leave now. Also, I will not translate any other language in this story unless someone in the chapter other than the person speaking knows that language, and certain countries in Fa'Diel will have their own national language that corresponds to a language in our world. If this annoys you, read something else.

**  
Moments:  
Chapter Four**

"Let go of me, you mangy cur!" Angela screamed at the monster, her short nails clawing ineffectually at the wide-palmed paw caught in her hair. But the Beasts' leader did not laugh, did not hit her or shake her or do anything of the sort. He did nothing but walk, dragging her through the corridors of Castle Jad by her long, soft purple hair. Her head was still bleeding from when he had first grabbed her and his dirty claws had scraped across her tender scalp. She cried at the sight of so much blood on his hands and her clothing, but her tears did nothing. She screamed and shouted, and he ignored her voice. She slapped at him and cursed him in Altenan, and he did not bat an eye.

Angela wished she could have used magic like a real princess.

He pulled her into the lavish throne room, her boots sliding on the marble tiles as she sought desperately to hold her ground. To pull away, to fight him, somehow, on some level. But he was too strong, too big, and she could not keep her footing. Angela had never felt so helpless in her life, and that feeling was by far more frightening than anything else that she had ever experienced.

The Beastman continued to pull her across the tiles, over the red carpeted stairs, and threw her down in front of the empty throne roughly. She only just barely managed to catch herself with her hands to keep from slamming her face into its gilded base, clinging there as if she could have crawled between the expensive filigree to hide. There was a sound of clinking metal, of heavy chain links brushing each other in passing. She closed her eyes and tried to wish him away, tried to tap into that power that had ripped her from her mother's grasp and left her to die in the Sub-Zero Ice Fields.

But the magic would not come and would not save her. Angela opened her eyes, knowing that she was all that she had left to save herself. It was a fact that she was starting to get sick of.

"I know that you've seen _these _before, _Valda_," he sneered, animal lips curling back and away from jagged dog teeth. The wolfman held up a heavy black chain that connected to a metal ring deeply embedded within the opposite side of the king's seat, the other end finishing in a thick dark collar. Angela cowered, pushing her body up closer to the throne as that collar swung slowly between his massive paws. She knew what that was. She had seen a version of it in the Altenan throne room. She had chained her young Beast handmaid to that place before when she was young and thought that it was funny.

It was a slave post. It was the traditional place where a king or queen would have kept his finest and most well-behaved Beastman or woman as a living trophy, as an object to be praised and beaten for the entertainment of visiting ambassadors. In Altena, the post was not connected to the throne itself anymore; after the Uprising, Beastpeople were kept chained to walls and away from the royal family. _Just in case_.

"N. . .no, don't – !" she tried to protest, turning in an attempt to get away, but the monster's foot came down heavily on the small of her back. Angela fell flat to the floor, gasping as the air was blasted from her lungs. He wrapped the chain around her neck and pulled back so that the metal bit deep into her pale skin, choking her. It raised her upper body with the force of his pull, arching her back and settling a tightness in her shoulders as she struggled to ease the tension by holding her weight with her arms.

"Oh? 'Don't?'" he mocked her, lowering himself into a seated position on her lower back where his foot had been only moments before. She could feel his furred knees come to rest on either side of her rib cage. His armor pressed into her skin painfully. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes again, but tried not to let them fall. It would not help her, anyway. He was a monster, and monsters did not feel remorse or pity for their victims. There was nothing human about the Altenan animal on top of her. "Why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't I keep my word, _Valda_?"

"I-I'm. . .I'm n-not. . ." Angela gasped, unable to finish the sentence. Her vision was going dark on the edges, was blurred and hazy from unshed tears and lack of oxygen. _I'm not Valda_, she wanted to scream. _I hate that woman. I could never be her_, she wanted to tell him. The princess did not know if it would have helped, but she wanted to deny the resemblance. She wasn't anything like her mother. The Beast just gripped her neck below the juncture of throat and jaw with one paw, unwrapped the chain with the other. She took a deep, gasping breath and nearly choked on the air that flooded her straining lungs. He took the collar and clipped it to her neck, locking it into place so that she could not get it off.

"I don't care what you think you are," he whispered to her in that low, guttural growl of his. The monster stood, glaring down at her from his position of power. Angela turned her head to look up at him over her shoulder, still breathing heavily as she tried to regain some vague semblance of composure. But her eyes were still wide and terrified, and she was certain that he could smell her fear. His features twisted into that strange expression, that baring of teeth and contorting of facial muscles into a wholly unnatural smile that wolves were never supposed to be able to manage. She tried not to whimper too loudly when he bent over and reached down for her, but she could not help it. She was afraid of him. "Because to me, you are just another Altenan whore who thinks she's beautiful."

He grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her onto her back. She kicked at him, screaming shrilly –

"Don't touch me! Get away from me! You-you. . .you _dog_! You _bastard_!"

– but to no avail. The Beast leader's claws dug into the fabric at her chest, drawing thin lines of blood from her breasts. He yanked his arm back, lifting her bodily from the floor for a brief moment before the wet fabric gave way at the seams. Angela fell back to the red carpet and slapped him hard, but he only snarled something incomprehensible – something violent and crude, no doubt – in their native language that she did not catch through her panic. He ripped the tunic from her small frame, shredding the cloth with his claws where it would not be torn by force alone. Her cloak fell from her shoulders in the struggle. She could feel his breath on her skin, hot and wet across her chest as he brought his face and hands down the length of her torso. Angela's knee slammed into his jaw when he paused at the top of her leggings, when he grabbed the waistband and tried to pull them off.

The Beastman lurched back with a pained groan, and Angela took the opportunity to scramble up to her feet and make a run for it. She made it to the bottom of the stairs before she ran out of chain, the metal going taut and jerking her back so hard that it gave her whiplash. The top edge of the collar had slammed back against her trachea hard enough to split the skin there, and she fell to the marble tiles, landing harshly on her back. She coughed, gagging on the pressure and the air and the fear, her hands coming up to her throat and tugging uselessly at the metal. Her whole body trembled, her fingers sliding through blood over the collar, a few drops of the red liquid dripping down over and under metal, hitting soft flesh and leaving a dark trail as they moved down between her exposed breasts. From the throne, she could hear the monster laugh.

There was a sudden tug on the chain connected to the collar, and when she fell back against the stairs and stared up, she could see that the black and dark grey animal was pulling her back to him. He did it slowly, purposefully, with that sinister look in his inhuman eyes. She had no choice but to crawl back towards him; the only other alternative would have been to lay there and let him pull her by the throat, and this was marginally less painful. He grabbed her by the arm when she was close enough and dragged her to her feet.

The wolfman tore the leggings from her body, dropping the discarded cloth to the floor when he was done. She stood before him, naked and trembling in her boots, but kept her head held high, leveling a glare into his ice-blue eyes. She was starting to hate that color the way that she hated the way he looked at her, like he was so much smarter and stronger and _better _than her.

A part of her knew what would come next. It was the tiny, sobbing part inside of her, the shameful piece of her irrational mind that desperately wanted her to drop to her knees and beg him to stop, as if rabid animals could be appealed to on an emotional level. Her body would pay the price for whatever petty unfairness that this dog had thought he had endured. What did he really know about injustice and pain? This wasn't fair either, and it wasn't right. Angela hadn't done anything but be born beautiful and Altenan, in the image of the Queen of Reason and the Mana Goddess. What right did this animal have to put his dirty paws on her? To take away her dignity and subject her to this kind of torturous humiliation?

He might even kill her when he had had his way with her. She almost hoped that he did, but quickly banished that thought. This was her life, and it was more precious than honor, or dignity, or even pride. No ideal was worth dying over.

Angela might not have been stronger than him, and she might not have been able to stop him, but she sure as hell would not submit quietly. She spat in his face, and tried not to flinch when he growled at her. The monster did not reach up to wipe the saliva from his face, did not shake her or hit her like she thought that he would.

"I'm not going to rape you," he said, and the hatred was momentarily replaced by surprise. He was sneering at her again, his breath filled with the stench of decayed meat where it fanned across her cheeks. They were almost nose to snout when he half-whispered, half-snarled his reasoning behind such a decision. "I'd get fleas, _or worse_."

"You're not man enough to try," Angela retorted, and for once her voice was steady and did not falter. She prayed that her pride would not taunt him into an attempt, but felt that her defiance was the only thing that might keep her safe. She was not sure why, but she thought that he might not touch her if she fought him hard enough. The wolfman only gave her a twisted, sardonic half-smile.

"You're right. I'm not."

And she realized that she was wrong about why he would not touch her like that. Rape was something only men did, after all, and he was an animal, a monster, a Beast who haunted nightmares, perhaps, but certainly not a man.

* * *

Duran had a headache when he came to.

Except that that was not quite true. He felt like someone had split his skull open, and that the contents had then been scrambled with a hot poker. That feeling was independent of the dull throbbing that had taken up residence just behind his tired eyes. The back of his head hurt from a blow that he did not remember receiving. At first, he thought that he was still out on the ramparts of the Forcenan fortress, or that maybe he was just now waking up after accidentally dozing off on sentry duty. But he was lying on his back and not leaning against the familiar stone this time, and the ground beneath him was much too soft for him to have still been in the fortress.

Where, and when, exactly was he?

The young mercenary kept his eyes closed, a groan escaping him as his lips pulled down into a frown. If he was not still on sentry duty, then perhaps that meant that he had only imagined the attack on the fortress stronghold. Maybe he was back home, asleep in bed, and Wendy would come jump on his stomach any minute now, whispering much too loudly to be effective that breakfast was almost ready and why didn't he wake up now and play with her?

He flexed his hand experimentally, fingers curling into his palm, the rough cloth scratching against the small metal plate. Duran never wore his gauntlets and gloves to bed. He cursed quietly. That meant that the attack had really happened, didn't it? He had fallen asleep on the wall only to awaken to the sound of screaming and the stench of blood and charred skin. If he looked at his reflection, he knew that he would see the Red Mage's signature in the mottled blistering on his face.

Koren.

_Damn that bastard_! Duran groaned again, shaking his head a little in the hopes that it would – somehow – banish the groggy, hazy feeling encompassing his mind. But it only made him feel nauseous, and, if possible, more disoriented. He sat up slowly, trying to figure out what had happened this time. Altena's attack on Forcena had happened several days ago; his physical wounds were old, though his pride would not heal without retribution. Duran opened his eyes at last, bringing a hand up to shield himself from the tell-tale signs announcing that it was, in fact, morning now.

_Just how long were you planning on waiting to get up? _He thought to himself as he began to rouse himself to his feet. But wait, that was not right. Duran did not think like that; if he had really been chiding himself, the language would have been far more foul. He paused in a kneeling position, his confusion growing when he reached for the bronze blade he kept strapped to his back and his hand closed on empty air.

No, this was _not _right at _all._

_You must leave this place at once, Duran, and continue to the Holy City._

There it was again, though this time he knew that those words had not been his own; they cut across his wary musings high and grating, almost as if a shrill voice were giving him orders from within his own head. That was preposterous, of course. How the hell would a voice get into his head?

It occurred to him then, in a morbid rush, that the voice could have split his skull open and then crawled inside before witching the whole mess closed while he was unconscious. Duran's hand snapped to the back of his head, half-expecting to feel blood matted into his thick hair or some kind of crude stitching puckering on his skin. But there was nothing back there. He made a hasty sign against evil with his other hand anyway.

_You are wasting precious time. _The voice in his head that he could not hear seemed annoyed, almost. . .huffy? Duran tried to push the voice down and to the back of his mind as he stood to get his bearings.

He was standing in a small clearing in the Rabite Forest outside of Astoria, the grass and wildflowers slightly wet from the morning dew – as was he, he noticed with a twinge of regret. He hoped he had time to clean his armor so that it would not rust. There were thick, solid trees lining the clearing to the west, their trunks covered in moss that showed dark bark in patches only where it had been rubbed away by the local wildlife. To the east was the edge of the lake, which the land fell into a few feet from his position. He spotted his sword in the grass when he turned south, the tip of the blade pointing easterly over the water's surface and towards the Cave of Waterfalls that separated Astoria from Wendell. Duran stooped to retrieve it, and, after wiping the blade on the dry portion of his shirt – which took him a moment, because he had to remove his breastplate to reach it – sheathed his weapon.

_Duran_!

"What the hell – shut up already!" he snarled at the insistent voice, turning sharply to glare behind him. There was nothing there, though. The young mercenary adjusted his visor with a soft curse, idly mussing his damp red hair. He noticed that the voice had gone silent, much to his satisfaction, but was curious to know why it was there and how it had come to speak to him in the first place. Duran was fairly certain that he was sane, after all. He tried to engage it. "Who are you, anyway, and what do you want? Why are you here?"

_I'll explain everything when we arrive in the Holy City. Oh, Duran, please hurry! The Goddess is in danger!_

At that exclamation, a part of the previous night returned to him. He had seen a strange light flitting across the surface of Lake Astoria from his room at the local inn, and had gone out to investigate it. At first, he had been expecting Altenan foul play – it had seemed ethereal, and magic was as good an explanation for the light's sudden, dancing appearance as any – but as he hacked and struggled through the forest he had dismissed that possibility. More likely than not, he had decided that the light probably belonged to some bizarre little animal native to this area. Duran was a plainsman, and unfamiliar with the woodland creatures surrounding the lake shore village. But he had not wanted to take any chances.

It had taken him just over an hour to reach the far side of the lake where the light had disappeared to last night. Once there, he had taken his sword in hand and stepped cautiously into the clearing, eyes trained on the weak glow that was all that remained of that strangely careening light, almost lost amongst the tall blades of grass. He had crept closer, had reached out to it and. . .

And he did not remember what happened next.

"Why should I trust you?" Duran asked it, crossing his arms over his chest resolutely. He felt a little silly, talking to himself like this, but it could not be helped. This voice could belong to anything; it could belong to some sinister monster that would lead him to his own death or, worse yet, a by-product of an Altenan spell that might try to trick him into helping them bring down Forcena. There was no way to know for sure.

_Did you not hear me? The Mana Goddess is in terrible danger and there is no time to waste!_

"Uh-huh." Duran sounded unconvinced.

_I'm a fairy from the Holy Land, not some dark spirit! Please, you _must _believe me! I must speak with the High Priest, and alert him to the evil that threatens our world! _There was a slight pause, a sense of uncertainty from it during the quiet interlude where neither spoke. _. . .I really don't appreciate your cynicism._

"I don't believe in fairies," Duran stated bluntly, looking out over the water towards Astoria.

_ Look, you really don't have much of a choice here. If I _was _a demon, which I'm _not, _you would have to go to the Holy City to get an exorcism anyway. Now start walkin', fire-top._ It sounded like the voice had reached the end of its patience with him, and he flinched when he felt it pinch a nerve at the back of his neck where his spine connected with his head. It felt hot, a quick lightning thrust of pain that exploded forward from the spot and made bright lights dance before his eyes. Duran blinked quickly and scowled, running a gloved hand through his hair again.

It had a point.

He let out a heavy sigh. The trip to Wendell was not one that he had wanted to make, and he had not gotten on the ship from Maia with any real intention of going there. Duran had not gone to Jad because he had wanted to make some kind of pilgrimage like so many of the other passengers. He had chosen that ship because it was the first one to leave and he could not stand to stay in Forcena with the heavy weight of guilt and failure on his shoulders. Duran had been to the Holy City all of twice in his lifetime, once to be baptized as a child and once to witness the same event for his younger sister, and he had no desire to repeat that long, cold, dark trip through the Cave of Waterfalls. But really, what else was he going to do? He watched the smoke rising from the village with disinterest, barely noting the sputtering of dying flames as he stood there.

"Wait a minute. . . What the hell is that?" he squinted at the view of the village, his previous thoughts cast aside as he realized that no, that smoke was not from morning cooking fires and chimneys. Astoria. . . The wooden homes had blackened since last he saw them, roofs had fallen in and walls had crumbled. It had _burned_. "Who would – ?"

_It looks like the Beastmen got to it before you woke up,_ the voice commented, and he could feel it along his optic nerve, a presence that peered out at the ruined village with him, some pressure within the visceral fluid of his eyeball. It made him shiver. _You have to warn the High Priest about that, about them. If you go for no other reason, please: go to Wendell to stop the Beastpeople from –_

"Hey, I got it," Duran snapped, glaring at the air over his shoulder. Of course, there was nothing there. It was all in his head. He started walking back through the forest, following the path that he had made for himself last night. The underbrush was crushed and sliced, his footprints heavy in the moss and mud. It was easy to retrace his steps. A thought occurred to him halfway back, and he hesitated, looking up at the tree tops. "There's a barrier up on the entrance until the Holy Day. We won't be able to get through the caves today."

_I'll take care of that. You just have to get us there._

"I hope you know what you're doing. . ." he grumbled, but kept moving forward.

* * *

Hawk was not an idiot. At least, he liked to think that he was not. He was a thief, after all; he was not supposed to trust others easily. Besides, he was not carrying nearly enough Luc to buy any kind of favor or loyalty from the young mercenary standing in front of him. It would have been more than stupid to trust a Forcenan without any kind of binding contract; the grasslands' country was well-known for teaching its people to put a price tag on lives. If given incentive, a Forcenan mercenary would gladly run his own mother through. They were loyal only to their king and money. And so it was that he did not particularly trust the red-haired boy, but when faced with the only other alternative – namely, finding a way around the mountain and Lake Astoria in order to reach the City of Light – he had decided to ignore his initial gut reaction.

"You on a pilgrimage?" the boy asked dubiously, raising one brow and settling a hand on his hip. Was the Forcenan a boy? It was hard to tell how old he really was under the painful looking burn that stretched from just under his left eye all the way down the side of his face. There was a strange mark that seemed to have been etched into his flesh between the blisters, but Hawk was ignorant to its significance. Forcena did not have slaves – never had and never would – and it didn't look clean enough to be that kind of brand, anyway. He decided not to question or comment on it; the kid didn't seem too keen on sharing all the details of his travels, anyway. The Forcenan's story had holes big enough for airships to be driven through. Then again, Hawk did not plan on being entirely honest about his reasons for going to Wendell, either. The Navarren flashed a winning smile and shook his head. It would be best to leave things like Eagle's death and the Flame Khan's demise out of an introduction. He did not want the boy to think of him as a murder suspect or a political prisoner and freshly escaped refugee. Hell, maybe he already knew. Their meeting might not have been a coincidence at all.

"Not exactly," the thief brushed the question off with a wave of one hand. "I'm from Navarre, and I'm looking for a way to break a curse."

"You're cursed?" the mercenary frowned, taking a small step back. _Ah,_ Hawk thought, _a __superstitious one_.

"No, not me, but someone very close." He extended his hand as a courtesy, not really expecting much in the way of return. "The name's Hawk."

The mercenary accepted it, taking the offered hand and shaking it roughly. He had a strong grip, Hawk noticed with a tight smile that was not quite a grimace. "Duran. Did you escape from Astoria last night?"

"No, from Jad, a while ago," Hawk answered, raising a brow and frowning slightly. "I saw a group of Beasts on my way out here, but I didn't follow them and haven't been any farther south. Why?"

". . .I was wondering if anyone survived. That group you saw, they razed the village. I was just there, but. . ." Duran shook his head, releasing the thief's hand and reaching up to adjust his visor. "All I saw were burned out buildings and dead bodies."

Hawk's frown deepened. It was not that he didn't feel bad about what had happened to the people of Astoria, but it was something that neither of them could change now. They could not help the dead, and there was no point in standing around and talking about it. He had to save Jessica, and everyone else in the world would have to wait for some other good-looking fellow to play savior to them. Hawk just did not have that kind of time. He cleared his throat and popped his knuckles, looking over to the cave's entrance. "That's. . .that's really terrible. I guess that means that the Beastpeople are all over this area, then. Probably mopping up survivors, or something. – " he could feel the mercenary glaring at him, but did not look back and quickly cut the idle small talk " – Look, you mentioned that you knew a way in? I don't think we have time to wait for the Holy Day, and if both Astoria and Jad have already been taken, then there's really only one place left to go."

The redhead nodded, turning to regard the cave's entrance as well. It was just a dark hole in the side of the mountain, the floor inside quickly sloping down and disappearing from sight. Hawk had already run his sly fingers over the surface of the invisible barrier that blocked their advance, poking and prodding in search of some kind of mechanism that might have controlled it. He had known that it was in vain; everyone knew that the barrier was controlled by the High Priests in Wendell, and was – unfortunately – not a booby-trap that could be disarmed by an experienced hand. If this young mercenary really knew of a way in, then Hawk was eager to find it.

"I.. .well, I picked up a fairy in the forest."

"I'm sorry, you did _what?_" Hawk gaped at his new companion, staring with open-mouthed shock. Hawk was not the most religious fellow in the desert, this he knew. He prayed to Salamando to relieve them from the heat, and he sometimes even remembered to honor the Holy Day, but otherwise he believed most of the myths to be pointless mumbo-jumbo that priests used to keep men in line and church coffers full. He knew that some people – like Isabella, and the High Priests, and many Altenans – could use magic, but fairies? Really now? Hawk could barely bring himself to believe in elves, let alone some tiny, primarily ethereal beings that were said to only live in the Holy Land itself and guard the Mana Tree.

"Hey, don't look at me like that."

_You mean, like you're crazy? Spent too much time in the heat?_ Hawk was tempted to tease, but managed to bite his tongue. Duran carried a large sword, after all, and while the Navarren was fairly certain that he was fast enough to avoid the sharp edge, he did not want to test his luck too much. He might need it later. Instead, Hawk just shrugged, holding up his hands to show that he had meant no harm. Still, he couldn't resist a little joking."Who am I to judge the Chosen One?"

"Just. . . shut up. I know it sounds stupid, okay? Trust me; I've been thinking about it for the last couple of hours," his new companion brushed by him with a wave of one hand, as if to ward off further commentary. Hawk just smiled, and watched as the Forcenan stepped up to the barrier. He was definitely a boy, and not a young man. The mercenary took his glove and gauntlet off of his right hand and extended it, a little fast and a little far, so that his fingers hit the magical seal and bounced back with a sharp and sudden _crack-snap_ of energy. Duran cursed softly, snatching his aching fingers back and holding them to his breastplate as he glared at the rippling barrier, which soon settled back to its original resting state. Hawk chuckled, which earned him another dark scowl.

_"Ah, that's right. . ." _the voice was soft, and for a moment, Hawk was not really sure that he had heard anything at all but the distant sound of flowing water. He turned, looking first behind him and then cautiously peering back over to Duran. The mercenary closed his eyes with a sigh, head tilting down and slightly canted to one side. From just behind the redhead's ear, Hawk could see. . ._something_. Something pale and flighty, a faint shimmer of skin-tone and gossamer wings that glittered in the light, rose up out of his head, spread thin appendages wide and faced the barrier. He felt his breath catch in his throat as he watched, dumbfounded.

_Sweet Salamando and the Saints of Old_. . . the kid really _did_ have a fairy.

The fairy spoke, that same soft and genderless voice from before, as it made the sign of the Goddess with tiny hands, but Hawk did not understand what it had said. It was speaking the language from the Holy Land, he was fairly sure, and he did not spend nearly enough time in church to have even the faintest clue as to what any of it meant. When it was done, it turned to the mercenary, brushing back long white-blonde hair and something – a smile? – caused the delicate features of its face to change. ". . ._There. You should be able to get in now, Duran."_

"You didn't even _do_ anything," the mercenary stated blandly, crossing his arms over his chest. The fairy tilted its head to one side, the bright places where eyes must have been disappearing as it scolded its host:

_"Just because you didn't notice, doesn't mean nothing happened. So move it._"

Duran sighed in exasperation, turning away as the fairy pressed its incorporeal body close to the side of his face. Its front seemed to melt into him, sunk in through the flesh and disappeared, the wings fluttering a little as they passed through muscle and left Hawk's sight. The Forcenan rubbed at his temple afterward, disturbing some filmy kind of dust that had been left behind – it reminded Hawk of the powder on moth wings. But then those hands reached out for the barrier and passed through the air where they had previously been thrown back. Duran touched the dark, wet rock on the other side with a small, humorless smile.

It occurred to Hawk then that if the priests were right about fairies, then they might be right about other things, too. Which meant that he might be really going to Hell when he died. He made a mental note to pray more often and stepped forward into the cave.

"Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go."

* * *

"Look, Big Brother!" Carlie exclaimed, bouncing up and down with excitement as she pointed to the cave entrance in front of them. Kevin watched her warily as she ran up to the gaping rock mouth, running small pink hands over the stone rim, giggling as they passed from sun-warmed surface into the darkness beyond. It looked wet, he thought; wet and cold and smelled like deep old things. Caves were a new thing for him. Though the Moonlight Forest had a mountain barrier on the eastern side that separated it from the rest of the world, Kevin had never actually been there. He had never clambered on those fiercely jagged cliff sides, or explored the shallow crevices where strange monsters bred. Caves did not seem like a safe place. "The seal is gone!"

"Seal?" he repeated the strange word, as he had found himself doing so often around the little girl. The common tongue was hard to use, with too many words for some things and not enough for others. Carlie kept changing the grammatical rules on him, kept throwing out all these oddly pronounced foreign terms, and it only made his communication with her harder. It almost made him wish that he had stayed in the castle longer for lessons, or had spent more time around the docks in Mintos.

"Mm-hm! Carlie's Grampa puts a magic wall up over the entrance to the caves to keep monsters out of Wendell," she began to explain, beckoning him to follow her. Kevin quickly caught up with his longer, awkward stride, prompting a giggle from his companion. They entered the caves. "Usually, Grampa and Big Brother Heath only let it down on the Holy Day for pilgrimages, but it's not up right now, and it's only. . ." – she held the final vowel as she thought carefully for a moment, bright blue eyes rolling up to the dark ceiling – "Salamando's Day."

"Is strange. . ." Kevin commented, frowning at the dimly lit surroundings. He did not want to travel in the dark with her; he was afraid of what might happen if his body mistook the limited light for night. If they ran into monsters, he might transform, and then Carlie would know. She would be afraid of him, he was sure. He was afraid of himself, of that anger, that hate and violence. It all made his skin crawl and that sickly twisting feeling in his stomach grow, squirming back in his gut until it reached his spinal column and clung there with a nauseous tenacity. The half-breed swallowed hard and tried not to think about it like that, like it had some kind of sentience and intelligence; like it was doing things on purpose. It was just a bad feeling, after all.

The entryway to the caves led into a long, damp hall with thick stalactites and broken-off stalagmites littering the sides where the ceiling rounded down into walls. It was narrow, and – a part of him worried – if they were to be attacked, it would have been a good place for an ambush. There was no branching off, no tiny side crevices to hide in. It was simply straight, and dark despite the torches that lined the walls, and the hall was filled with that deep earthy mineral smell that got stuck high up in his sinuses and made him want to sneeze. Kevin put a hand on Carlie's little shoulder, pulling her back to walk beside him instead of in front. She slowed her pace to match his cautious footsteps.

"Kevin doesn't have to be scared," she told him as they broke free of the hall and entered a cavernous room with a low, domed ceiling that rounded down into uneven walls. There was more light here, in the form of lit torches along the far side of the room, the smell of the slow-burning wood quickly becoming familiar. There was a statue of woman that he did not recognize in the center of the room. Kevin blinked, and shivered a little. Carlie took his hand off her shoulder and held it. "There aren't any monsters here. There aren't any bad people. It's a long walk to Wendell this way, but that's all. It's just Big Brother Kevin and cute little Carlie here."

"Who?" he asked, pointing to the statue. Carlie just laughed, and pulled him over to the statue.

"That's the Mana Goddess, silly!" she playfully scolded him before looking up at the carved deity with a small, reverent smile. "She's here to protect her children on their journey, and to remind us to keep up hope. That's why these passages are safe. Doesn't she look like this where you're from, Big Brother?"

Kevin peered into the statue's face, but he did not get the feeling that she was there to help them at all. It was hard for him to imagine a goddess who cared about the plight of her children; hard to believe in a goddess who would willingly watch over them. Beastpeople did not consider themselves to be children of the Mana Goddess, because her other children were all human – were all slave holders and whip-masters, rapists and murderers who destroyed families and cultures while praying with blood-stained hands. Kevin was not a child of Mana. He was a mistake born of anger and hatred and baptized in blood. What little protection he had ever known came from Luna, the battered mother that had given birth to the first of the Beastpeople shortly after Dolan was locked away inside the Mana Crystal.

The sick, oily feeling in his gut twisted again, and Kevin tried not to grimace. The goddess statue only made him feel worse, and not just because she seemed to aggravate the unholy magic that the Deathjester had used to heal him. She reminded him of every lie the humans told about his people, of bitter tales of cages and collars that had been passed down from generations of Beasts that had known only pain and sorrow. To the Beastpeople, the Mana Goddess did not stand for hope or love, but for hypocrisy. Humans claimed to be good and pure, even had a word for all their kind acts towards others: _humane_. But that gentle nature did not cross over to those that were different from them. At least Beastpeople acknowledged their dark sides; they did not pretend to be more accepting than they really were. Beastpeople were xenophobic and vengeful, and paid homage to their demonic father for the 'glory' of the animal rages that they had inherited.

But a part Kevin longed for that stranger cast in stone. He wondered if it was his human half manifesting itself. Maybe the goddess really did stand for peace and hope and all those wonderful, silly things that felt so lost in the reality of such a cruel world. It would have been nice to believe in a life that did not have to be hidden beneath a red veil. The longer he spent away from the Beast Kingdom, the more he wanted to wash his hands clean of Dolan's influence. Was it really plausible to live without fighting, without killing and death and all this miserable sadness that left his heart aching? If he could find a way to forgive the goddess for turning her back on him, and on Karl, and on all the Beasts who had never deserved their fates, would she – in turn – forgive and love him unconditionally, the way she loved her human children?

He shook his head and tried not to think like that.

"Does Wendell have. . .slaves?" he asked, struggling with the common word for what his people had once been, and still were in some parts of the human world.

"No, of course not!" Carlie shook her head emphatically, blonde curls bouncing past her face. "The City of Light has never kept slaves. That would be wrong."

"Beastpeople live there then?"

"Well, no. . ."

"Why?"

"'Cause they're mean, Big Brother," Carlie said uncertainly, looking away from him and the statue now. "And they're really scary. Why would we want them to live with us?"

". . . Is good question."

She smiled up at him, apparently pleased that she had given the right answer. Kevin held his hand back out to her, and she took it, not questioning the strange texture or the way that the water in the air made the fur on his arms stand on end. He was glad that she did not look too closely; it would have hurt him if she had been able to tell that he was one of those big, scary monsters.


End file.
